Page 1 of Veiled Flames (Destiny of Dragons #1)
One
Rosomon
T he sun hangs low, a deep magenta ball that bathes the horizon in vibrant violets and deep pinks. Purple dusks portend winds of change—so say the klericks. I could use some change.
Hope stirs inside me, and I tighten my grip on Sky Stallion’s mane, digging my bare heels into his flanks and urging him to gallop faster and faster.
The King’s steed obeys my command, and the late afternoon air lifts my loose hair to fly in the wind.
Together, the large horse and I race across open fields of wild oats, decorated with cornflowers and daisies, some very close to the pink shade of my hair.
My linen gown provides little barrier between the beast’s thundering body and mine, and his heat and power vibrate through me, letting me claim some of his strength as my own. Leaning close to his neck, I inhale the beast’s musky scent as his mane joins my pink locks to stream behind us.
In moments like this, I can pretend I’m not trapped. That I’m free. Free to do whatever I choose.
This bareback ride breaks so many rules governing my existence. I’ve taken the King’s favorite steed; I’m improperly dressed; I’m unchaperoned; I’m outside the castle grounds; and—horrors—I’m riding astride Sky Stallion.
My failings are endless. Father won’t take any notice.
Possessing one crucial feature I lack, my two younger siblings claim all the King’s paternal attention. I may be first born but failed to be born a boy.
Racing across the meadows, I imagine myself galloping past the end of these grasslands and traversing the dark woods toward the mountains of Verax.
Perhaps one day I’ll escape the boundaries of Achotia to explore the rest of the Seven Kingdoms—even beyond.
Perhaps one day I might even see the giant veil that protects the Seven Kingdoms of Light from the Darkness.
Such dreams are pure fantasy. I may have been born with royal blood but have no coin. No marketable skills. No way to survive on my own. Still, any day I’m able to steal myself outside the gates for these rides, I remain content. My life could be so much worse.
Mid-gallop, Sky Stallion neighs, and his body quivers under mine. I loosen my grip, signaling him to slow. Looking up to see what spooked the horse, I expect a falcon or other such raptor.
A massive beast cuts the sky—its wingspan far greater than any bird’s, and its knife-like tail slicing curves through the lavender sky.
A dragon! Excitement bubbles inside me as I look up in awe.
Such beasts were a gift from Othrix, granted to protect The Kingdoms of Light.
Dragons are never seen this far from the veil. I’ve only seen illustrations in books.
A shiver of fear joins my excitement. This creature could burn me to a crisp, or swallow me with a single bite, but it’s sailing so close to the Great Beyond, there’s little chance of Sky Stallion and I becoming its dinner.
The sun is now kissing the highest treetops of the forest. Night is coming. Bold as I am, I have no desire to traverse the woods once the sun fully sets. And I don’t want any servants to be blamed for my absence, should I be late for the evening meal.
“What do you think, Sky?” I stroke the horse’s powerful neck, damp with sweat from our run. “Time to head home?”
Turning my mount, I steer us toward a small path that leads through the forest, so we can avoid the main road as long as possible. My chosen path is one more easily navigated on foot, but I duck under byrch tree branches and dodge razorleaf bushes, as we get closer and closer to the river.
As we near the top of the gorge, voices carry through the thick foliage, and I signal the horse to stop. Sliding off his body, I rest my hand on his neck, guiding him as we walk down a steep path toward a small clearing where I’ll have a good view of the river and the bridge that crosses it.
As I suspected, the voices are rising from a party gathered on the road surrounding the bridge.
Dozens of soldiers on foot precede a cortege of carriages, followed by several rough-hewn carts.
Four knyghts have dismounted their horses and stand in defensive positions around the most highly decorated carriage, their long swords drawn at the ready.
Given the excess of gold and gems on the main carriage, whomever it holds is seeking an audience with my father, the King. Pulling my looking tube from under my shift, I take a closer look.
The crest of Khotor.
Traveling by carriage, the Kingdom of Khotor is a good ten days to the south. Does the arrival of this royal cortege have anything to do with the dragon flying over our lands?
The carriage door opens, and a puffy-faced elderly man emerges. He looks to have many more years than my father’s eight and forty—I’d guess he has more than seventy—and his belly’s so huge it’s difficult to see his legs as he fights to extrude himself through the door.
“Hurry,” he yells. “Footmen! Now! Grab that lusty wench we reaped in the last village.”
Within seconds, footmen drop off the back of the carriage, and one falls to his hands and knees below the door.
Two others support the fat old man as he steps onto the first servant’s back, while another tugs the man’s arms from the front.
The kneeling footman strains to keep his back level, and I swear the old man is purposefully grinding the narrow heel of his fancy boot into his servant’s spine.
A yelp draws my attention, as a burly footman yanks a young woman out of an open cart.
She struggles as he pulls her by the hair toward the old man’s carriage.
The bodice of her soiled dress is torn, exposing one of the paps of her bosom, and a large blood stain soils the seat of her garment.
She must be traveling while on her courses, without the required rags.
My heart goes out to her for suffering such indignities, but the scene is too far away for me to offer assistance.
And the bank here too steep for Sky Stallion.
It will take me ten minutes to head through the woods and down the road to reach the group, and even going that quickly I’d be risking the horse’s safety.
By the time the young woman reaches the carriage, the footmen have extruded the old man through the door. The feat seems improbable given his girth and how well wedged he looked to be, when my attention was drawn away.
“Hurry!” he yells. “My need is urgent.”
The young woman is tossed at his feet.
“Make use of yourself.” One of the footmen kicks her. “The King needs a piss.”
Confusion floods me, but the girl kneels and reaches up to fumble with the dozens of buttons holding the front flap of the man’s velvet breeches. Is this the King of Khotor?
What is his name?
I fight to recall facts from my brothers’ kingscraft lessons, but my brain is fogged—first with confusion and then with disgust. The girl’s upper body jerks to the side, narrowly avoiding a stream of piss that arcs from below the fat king’s belly.
“Gently! Gently!” he yells. Then, in contrast to his demands of her, he slaps the young wench so hard her head nearly snaps off her neck. And still, somehow, she continues to hold the king’s sausage as he soaks the mud with steaming piss.
The King nods back toward the open carriage door. “Our new piss wench is clumsy. Luckily, I’ll soon have a new wife to perform such duties.”
The girl bows her head, in despair I imagine, and I coax Sky Stallion toward the edge of the bank, looking for a way down that won’t risk breaking his leg or my neck.
King of Khotor or not, this man is in Achotia, and we don’t tolerate such abhorrent mistreatment of servants—not even those who have the misfortune to be born female.
“Unhand me, wench!” the King shouts. “Can’t you see that I’m finished?” He pushes the servant face first into the urine-soaked mud and then kicks her with the toe of his pointed boot. The rest of the party laughs.
Anger builds inside me. “Stop that!” I shout.
Not a single head turns. The strong evening winds are blowing toward me, and that, combined with the acoustics of the gorge, prevents my voice from carrying down, although I hear their every word.
“Perhaps the wench enjoys handling the royal cock.” Another man emerges from the carriage. He too is dressed in the finery of a royal personage but is closer in age to my father. Is this the Crown Prince of Khotor?
The presumed prince laughs. “Methinks the wench seeks another good drilling.” He pats his trouser flap.
I’m not certain what he means by drilling, but everything about this prince’s demeanor is even worse than the king’s. This man is malice personified.
“A fine idea.” The King drops to sit on the back of the footman, still posed as a step in front of the carriage door.
“Get on with it.” He gestures toward one of his footmen.
“One of you drill her. And do it right here, so she can hold my rod as I watch. I expect to see every hard poke show in her eyes.”
One of the footmen lifts the servant girl out of the mud and places her on her feet in front of the old man.
“She has soiled herself!” shouts the King. “She must be cleansed before her hands again approach the royal member.”
The footman carries the girl to the river, drops her into the rushing water and holds her under.
Her arms flail in protest, but before she drowns, he carries her dripping body back toward the King.
Pushing on her neck and tugging back on her hips, the footman forces the girl to bend forward.
Her hands fall onto the King’s knees, and her head strikes his bulbous belly.
One footman lifts her skirts from behind, while another fumbles with the flap of his leather breeches.
“Enough!” I shout into the wind. I’m not certain what’s going on, or what drilling means, but I can tell that it’s bad. I think again of the red stain on her skirts and question its origins.