Page 3 of Wings of Frost and Fury (Merciless Dragons #4)

TWO YEARS

BEFORE THE FALL OF ELEKSTAN

Once again, I’m risking death for a few leaves.

The mountain fissure that I’m about to squeeze into is home to a pack of fenwolves, one of the three major species of predator on the isle of Ouroskelle, where my clan resides. The other two predators are the subterranean voratrix and my own kind—dragons.

Fenwolves are resistant to many types of dragon magic.

Their coats turn away the hot fire most dragons possess, and some of them can channel our lightning through their bodies into the ground so that it doesn’t harm them.

Like other living things, they’re helpless to the rare void magic of the younger dragon prince, Varex.

But their numbers and their nearly impervious coats make them a dangerous challenge for the rest of us, especially if we’re on the ground.

I’ve discovered, however, that while my frost-fire may not kill the fenwolves or cause any lasting harm, it does slow them down. Usually that bit of extra time is all I need to crawl into their crevice, retrieve the plants I desire, and worm my way back out.

Every time I forage for alethia, I take a little more, because each time I use it, the effect is weaker, and I have to eat extra leaves to achieve the result I crave.

I move into the fissure, my long neck snaking through the narrow passage. But when I try to advance the rest of my body through the gap, I meet with more resistance than usual.

It’s not simply a tight fit. I don’t fit. Not at all.

I shove my shoulders hard against the fissure’s rocky entrance, disappointed to discover that I’ve grown in bulk.

That tends to happen with dragons as we approach our second mating season.

It gives us an edge over the younger, more slender males.

We become gigantic, heavy with muscle, with thicker hides and stronger scales.

Lucky for me, my neck is longer than those of most dragons in my clan. If I stretch a little more, I’ll be able to reach a clump of alethia that’s growing out of the rocks near the floor of the fissure. The iridescent leaves shimmer in the faint sunlight from above. So tantalizingly close.

Just a bit farther.

No fenwolves have noticed my presence yet. One benefit of my frost-fire is the ability to chill my scales and my breath, partially concealing my scent. I might have a few minutes before they realize I’m here. Just enough time to get the alethia and leave, if I can manage to reach it.

I writhe, trying to wedge my shoulders farther into the gap. The nerves beneath my scales protest painfully, but I only struggle harder. I stretch my neck to its fullest extent, open my jaws, and extend my tongue. The tip barely grazes the edge of a leaf.

Fuck… I can’t do it.

What if I back out and try to claw the opening wider?

Dragon claws are sharp and strong enough to carve through stone, although depending on the type of rock, it can take a while.

Of course, doing that will leave obvious marks that other dragons will notice.

They’ll wonder why one of us was widening the path to a fenwolf den.

Someone might figure out who it was, and why.

The Bone-King outlawed the consumption of alethia for all dragons years ago, after a pair of dragons died in a rockslide while trying to obtain it.

Its effect upon dragons is considered unnatural, and its addictive properties can cause even the most dependable of dragons to forget their responsibilities to the clan.

If the Bone-King finds out I’ve been using alethia, I’ll be punished. He might even forbid me from participating in the upcoming mating season, which will occur two years from now.

Rationally, I know all this. And yet there’s a compulsion in my soul, stronger than my fear of the Bone-King.

I need alethia.

I need to feel the leaves melting on my tongue, one by one.

I love the way the herb transforms my vision, letting me see the world in rainbow colors.

I crave the incredible scenarios that burst into my mind, and the way my body thrills with every new miracle of my imagination.

I crave the heat that flows through me from snout to tail.

It’s a sensation like the mating heat, that urges my cock from its concealing slit and makes me spill compulsively all over the floor of my cave.

Discovery is a risk I’m willing to take, if it means I can enjoy the pleasures of alethia again. I’ll retreat, claw the fissure wider, then retrieve the plant that’s closest to the entrance. I’ll deal with the consequences later .

I shift backward, attempting to pull myself out of the crack in the mountain.

My scales scream against my flesh as they’re pried in the wrong direction. I stop moving from the sheer agony of it.

Shit… I think I’m stuck. I strained too hard, wedged myself too deeply in the fissure, and now I can’t get out.

Fuck.

Panic runs over my skin, making it crinkle beneath my scales, and a faint hiss of frost-fire emerges from my jaws.

I was afraid that a few claw marks might betray me, but this is far worse, far more obvious.

I’m jammed into a crack that’s known to be infested with fenwolves, and there is alethia nearly within my reach.

If any other dragon sees me here, they’ll know the truth at once.

They’ll perceive my rebellion against the Bone-King, and they’ll know my shame—that I am addicted to what is forbidden.

I have to get out of here now. I have to force myself backward, even if it rips my scales off. If anyone questions me about the resulting injuries, I can say I encountered a voratrice, one of the tentacled plant-monsters on Ouroskelle, whose barbed tongues can tear the scales off a dragon.

But before I can muster the mental strength to drag myself out, thereby mutilating my own hide, I sense another dragon approaching.

Like all dragon males who have been through their first mating season, I can sense the females of my clan.

Mature females can sense males as well, though the range of their perception is much smaller.

It’s a primitive remnant of who we used to be, ages ago, when our species was much more obsessed with mating.

Over millennia, our mating heats became much less frequent, until now they occur once every twenty-five years.

Unless it’s time for the mating heat, we do not feel a sexual pull toward the females .

The mental connection to the opposite sex activates at the start of a dragon’s first heat.

In addition to helping us sense proximity, it enables us to perceive familial relationships, such as siblings, parents or offspring, so we can avoid mating with our immediate relatives.

This is especially important because mating is an orgiastic frenzy upon the meadows of Ouroskelle, with most females being bred by multiple males during the same season.

It’s possible for half-siblings to end up in different nests, so the mutual familial awareness between genders prevents interbreeding.

The link is also useful during our hunts or in times of danger.

It’s less helpful when one is engaged in forbidden activities.

This female is close, too close for me to do anything but stay put and hope she doesn’t notice me. If she’s young, and she hasn’t been through her first season yet, she won’t have the same sense of my location that a more mature female would.

I lift my head, watching the sky. A large, golden dragon soars over the mountain slope, high above me.

Good news—she’s one of the younger generation, about twenty-three years old. So she can’t sense me.

Bad news—it’s Mordessa.

Her parents were the dragons who died for their pursuit of alethia.

After their passing, she was adopted by a bonded pair of males, Ardun and Ianeth.

She’s a good hunting partner, a friend of mine, and she’s been asking me some uncomfortably incisive questions lately.

Almost as if she suspects that I’m up to something.

Fuck, she’s banking and turning. Angling toward me.

She sweeps downward on those shining wings and lands behind me.

I raise my neck and swivel my head to look back at her, even though I don’t particularly want to meet her gaze.

“Stuck, are you?” Her rich voice carries a hint of amusement, but there’s sympathy in it, too .

I chose to be here. I don’t want her pity.

“I’m fine. Just a little accident,” I tell her. “I chased a fenwolf in here, but I was too zealous in my efforts and I underestimated the width of my shoulders.”

Mordessa lets out a long sigh. “Ashvelon,” she says, more gently. “It’s not worth this.”

A growl ripples through my throat.

“I understand this behavior better than anyone else possibly could,” she says.

“What behavior?” I snarl.

“You know exactly what I mean. And I will not free you until you listen to me.”

“I suppose I have no choice but to listen.”

“When I was younger, I also sought out alethia. I was curious about the herb that destroyed my first family. I found it, I tasted it, and I understood, Ashvelon. I understood the allure and the danger. The pleasure it offers is intoxicating.”

“It is wrong to want pleasure?” The words lurch out of me defensively.

“No. It is not wrong. But to crave pleasure to the exclusion of all else, to forgo your responsibilities to enjoy it, to foolishly endanger your wellbeing to achieve it—that is where pleasure becomes cruelty to yourself. That is obsession.”

Everything inside me roars against what she’s saying, and yet it’s undeniable that I have allowed myself to come to this point of self-endangerment, of obsession.

Turning away from her, I lay my head and neck along the ground within the fissure, defeated. “Will you tell the Bone-King?”

“No, I will not tell him, and I will set you free. But Ashvelon—I must take a promise from you.”

“And what is that? ”

“When you feel the urge to seek out alethia, you will come to me. We will hunt or fish or fly together. We will talk of something else, until your need subsides.”

I laugh harshly in my throat. “What will your Promised say to that?”

“Prince Kyreagan will not mind,” she says. “You and I are friends and nothing more. He knows that I care for him. That I—love him.”

Lifting my head again, I swivel it toward her. She’s hunched between her golden wings, looking more sorrowful than such an admission warrants.

Romantic love is a rarity among dragons. Friendship is far more customary. Mating is a compulsive occurrence based on momentary lust, not a link between hearts. Even life-mates typically make their arrangement based on companionship and practical considerations.

“You love Kyreagan?” I say. “Have you told him this?”

“Not in so many words, but I believe he understands my feelings, even though he does not feel the same way. Not yet.”

“Perhaps he will one day.”

“I hope so.” She shakes herself, discarding the topic for the moment. “Make me the promise, Ashvelon.”

“I will come to you when I crave alethia,” I say. “I vow it. And you can come to me when you’re in pain over the apathy of the Prince.”

“He isn’t apathetic,” she replies. “He respects me, and he is never unkind. He would die for me, as he would for any member of the clan. He cares, but not in the way I wish he would.”

“Does it give you some relief to discuss the matter?”

She blows out a breath. “Yes.”

“Then you will talk to me about it. We will help each other.”

Her head lifts and her wings arch, hopefulness in the lines of her golden form. “Yes. We will help each other. ”

She bounds into the air, wheeling high into the arch of the sky before diving again. Her jaws open, and a blast of focused lightning stabs the rock on one side of the fissure. It splits and crumbles, giving me enough space to back out of the crack and free my shoulders without hurting them.

I hesitate, knowing that the alethia is now within my reach. I could move deeper into the fissure and seize the plant in my jaws. One swift lunge, and it would be mine.

Mordessa’s shadow falls over me. She’s watching.

She could send her lightning to shrivel the alethia and prevent me from taking it. But she doesn’t, because she wants me to make the choice.

I inhale deeply, and then I send a blast of frost-fire against the rock, withering the plant where it stands. It turns black and crumbles into charred, brittle remnants.

When I join Mordessa in the sky, she whips her tail against mine, as dragons sometimes do after a particularly successful hunt. It’s a gesture of congratulations, of triumph.

We soar higher together, and I spin through the skies with her, twining my frost-fire with her lightning, creating a light as brilliant as the sun.

It’s the first of many more companionable encounters between us.

She talks to me of Kyreagan, and I speak to her of my craving for new experiences and carnal pleasure.

She weaves long elegies to the pains of love, and I tell her how I ache for beauty and transformation.

She mourns a devotion the Prince cannot give her, and I express my desire for something beyond the limited magic we dragons possess.

Through her, I come to understand that I am not broken—at least not entirely. Longing and restlessness are not unnatural. They do not make me wicked. It is only when I lose myself in the longing, when it controls me and causes harm, that the wickedness begins .

Mordessa will carry her love for Kyreagan throughout her entire life, whether or not it is reciprocated.

And I will have to carry my lust for alethia as well.

I must always be on guard against it. Since I cannot taste even one leaf without becoming obsessed, I will never be able to touch it again.

But with Mordessa’s help, I find distraction and amusement in other ways—by hunting the most elusive prey, by competing with other dragons in races over land or water, by trying new and difficult flight patterns, and by pursuing other sensations and experiences.

All of it helps me, as it helps her. But both of us understand what we never openly admit to each other—that while our conversations and activities may dull the ache inside us, the longings are never truly gone.