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  Then it is the gods’ will. Cymbeline will guide us to our mate when the time is right. Lumos did not intend to take a mate, not yet. Indeed, he enjoyed the company of many Faeries. Drakka would surely fall if he fell beneath a mate’s spell before the challenge. Gods, he had no time for such things. I admit the song intrigued me, yet as it faded, so did the desire.

  “Our mate’s song traveled from far beyond the reaches of our realm and yet her voice consumed you with sexual euphoria. No female will satisfy you now.” The Nightdragon lifted his head to gaze into the endless sky. “The goddess gives us but one mate, Lumos.”

  With a snort, Lumos languished in the memory of his night of passion. Although much to his chagrin, the Dragonsong had filled him with erotic delight. What if the dragon spoke the truth and, after this night, he would have no desire for another female?

  I do not have time to look for a mate, dragon. In case it slipped your notice, we have to fight for Drakka in six months’ time. I have no doubt the challenge came from a Dragonfae influenced by dark magyck. Have you any idea how many young Dragonfae have fallen foul of the Magus’ potion of late? How do you know this is not another of that foul wizard’s plans to make me stray off course?

  “The Magus of Fullmount may well be able to fool a young Dragon but not me.” The dragon snorted with anger. “I have the blood of the ancients.”

  Lumos considered the dragon’s words. Gods, if you are correct, our mate could be a thousand realms away, and as many years to find.

  “Ahh, Lumos, do you believe our mate will not sing again?” The Nightdragon slipped from the top of the mountain and dropped into a thermal current to hover above the city.

  Perhaps, but how will that help if she is a thousand realms away?

  “Do not worry. Our mate will call to us again soon. She is our chosen one and sings only for us, Lumos.” The Nightdragon chuckled. You must hope she waits to sing again until after the challenge for Drakka.

  Why?

  “The Dragonsong is a mate’s claim and we cannot refuse to respond, Lumos. It is the will of the gods.” The Nightdragon let out a triumphant roar. “If it takes a thousand years, I will find her.”

  Chapter Three

  Thirsty, so thirsty. Not one drop of water had past Thalia’s lips in three hours. She coughed, wincing at the pain in her throat. Her feet hurt. The silk slippers she wore gave little protection from the sharp stones on the road. Tied to Erik’s horse, she had tried to keep up with him but had fallen many times. Dragged along the ground, she had come close to the wagons running over her many times. Neither he nor his soldiers cared a fig if she dropped dead from exhaustion and did little to prevent the horses near trampling her to death. Indeed, they had found her predicament most amusing and she hated them more with each step. At least her hands no longer throbbed. In fact, all life had left her fingers and the swollen digits had turned the odd blue color of a rotting corpse.

  Hot, dusty and exhausted, she lifted her head to draw magyck from the cloudless, blue sky, and the song of birds in the hedge grove. Each one of the woodland creatures shared their magyck with her. A movement, a shadow crossing shadows flashed beneath the trees lining the dusty road. There, under the cover of a bramble bush, she caught the glint of orange eyes, the flash of a tail held high and proud. She drew in a deep breath. Brew.

  The black cat rarely left her side. With sly glances, Thalia watched the sleek, black fur catch the sunlight. Brew blinked his large, round eyes at her in acknowledgment and leaped from one zebra stripe shadow to the next, moving beside her in concealment. She trudged on, her mind going back to her friend, old Nell, and the tales she told of the Singing Forest.

  The old woman had come to the palace selling herbs. Enthralled by Nell’s stories, it had taken little encouragement for Thalia to agree to meet the ancient woman. Each month, the day after the moon hung full in the night sky, she slipped away to meet Nell beneath the Lion’s Head Rock. Such stories the old woman had told, of witches and goblins, the secrets of mighty dragons, the Fae, and the gods. With each visit, Thalia had learned more about her real heritage, of mystical herbs, and her place in the world—her destiny. I am a witch, a healer by way of the goddess Cymbeline.

  Thalia watched a squirrel bounce across a clearing, dance mischievously, then pick up an acorn and tear up a nearby tree. The small being had given her all the help he could. She took his humorous gesture with a smile of thanks. The small offering flowed into her power reserves like a warm, perfumed breeze. A child of the forest, she blended her magyck with all things living.

  Of course, she had informed the queen, proud to explain her newfound talent and her joining with the goddess Cymbeline. With a heavy heart, she remembered the expression on her mother’s face, the fear, or was it anger? From that day on, she had no longer met Nell in the forest. The old woman had vanished and soon after, her mother had fallen ill. Her heart twisted with the painful memory. Rather than accept her help, the king had locked her in the East Wing with only Brew for company. How could he think I would hurt Mother?

  A horse whinnied and she heard voices from the men riding before the wagons. The sound of flowing water and the scent of damp earth wafted on the breeze. A cloud of dust rose from the road, twirled up in a plume of silver glitter, and danced in a will-o’-the-wisp. She blinked. Before her, a width of sparkling, blue magnificence peeked through a line of weeping willows. She moaned, her gaze fixed on a river running fast and clear, the banks green and lush. Staggering, she fell to her knees. Oh sweet Cymbeline, thank you, for I am dying from thirst.

  “Get up.” Erik jerked the rope. “I am sick of the stink of you.” He dismounted and unsheathed his dagger.

  Stumbling to her feet, she gaped at the man, and waited for the deathblow. She drew her magyck around her and met his gaze, the will to survive and fulfill her destiny paramount. She concentrated on Erik’s face, using what little power she had to influence the big man. You will not kill me. Remember the queen’s dying request.

  “Do not waste your curse on me yet, witch. I am not going to kill you.” Erik took hold of the front of her dress and split the front wide open with one pass of the lethally sharp blade. “You are far too valuable as entertainment.” He untied her hands. “Take off what remains of your clothes and bathe.” With one swift movement, he removed the gag, and pushed it into his sleeve.

  Pain throbbed into her hands with the flow of blood. Pins and needles replaced the aching numbness. She lifted her chin to meet his chilling countenance. “Will you offer me some privacy?” Her voice had become a rasp. She licked paper-dry lips and coughed.

  “No, but perhaps we may find some privacy later.” Erik winked and pulled a small cake of soap from his pocket. “Use the soap.” He eyed her critically. “And do not think your curses will harm any of us. The High Priest himself blessed us all before our departure.”

  What fools you are. Thalia forced her mind to work through the dehydrated deliria to form a plan. She must find neutral ground. Her spells would not overpower so many men. She needed help from someone, anyone. This man had carnal intent written all over his face and she could use his lust against him. Could she offer herself to him? In truth, she had little else to bargain with to save her life.

  “Then may I have a strip of linen to dry myself on and some clean clothes from my chest?” She lifted her chin. “I beg you, good sir. I have done you no wrong.”

  “And what may I expect for payment, witch?” Erik laughed. “You will welcome me into your arms for a ride in your virginal folds?”

  Drawing herself up, she moved spit around her dry mouth. How bad could sex be? The servant girls were always giggling about the size of one knight’s cock compared to another’s. They would lift their skirts for nothing but the pleasure of a man buried deep inside them. She stared at the river for some moments before turning slowly back to Erik.

  “Very well, if you guarantee to feed me, allow me to ride in the wagon, and deliver me alive to my destination… Wher
ever that may be.”

  Erik scratched the dark stubble on his chin. “Now let me think. That is a long list for something I could take for free.” He stared at her exposed flesh and licked his lips. “Then you in turn must agree to give yourself freely as many times and for as long as I decide.”

  Gods give me the strength to endure. “Aye, I agree to your terms but with one proviso.”

  “And what, pray tell, is that, witch?” Erik raised an eyebrow.

  “Allow me to brew herbal tea to prevent me from conceiving a child.”

  “Agreed.” Erik waved her toward the river. “Bathe. We will make camp here for the night.”

  Holding her head erect, Thalia walked toward the river. The grassy bank dipped down to join a strip of golden sand littered with brown leaves and sticks. The fast-flowing river ebbed at this point. The main surge skirted a row of large, granite rocks to form a small pool. Without a backward glance, she marched into the river. The cool water burned into the numerous cuts like boiling oil. She gasped, biting back a sob. With jerky movements, she pushed her ripped dress off her shoulders and stepped free of the skirt. The dress floated away to join the rush of water in the river. The silk billowed, forming a yellow sail, like a half-sunken boat. Thalia dropped under the water. How easy it would be to drown and be free of this nightmare. Old Nell’s face drifted into her mind. “Magyck is a gift from the gods, my child. They have purpose for you, so learn your craft, and wait for the call.”

  Thalia pushed hard with her feet and broke the surface, gasping for air. Exhausted, she staggered to the bank, and sat swaying on a rock. Her shift and drawers clung to her body, offering no modesty. She glanced at the soap in her hand—her own personal soap. Erik had stolen it from her room, no doubt. The rich, lavender fragrance rose up in the air. With a growl of disgust, she lifted her head to see the man watching her closely.

  Angry, she rubbed the soap through her hair and over her body. She rinsed and watched the prismatic colored bubbles dance away as if racing to the sea. A sparrow dropped onto the sand and hopped to the edge to take a drink. The rushes moved slightly and orange eyes peered out between the green spears. Brew. The cat’s ears were stuck flat against his head. His eyes became slits just before he pounced. The sparrow flew away with seconds to spare, chirping its annoyance.

  Erik arrived with a crash, sword drawn, and his hawk-like eyes scanning the bulrushes. She covered her breasts and glared at the man. “Do you plan to kill me now?”

  “That black beast has shadowed my every step.” Erik swung around and glared at her. “I will spit-roast him and enjoy his flesh.”

  With a sigh, Thalia dropped her arms, aware that her nipples pressed hard against the wet fabric of her shift. Look at me, fool. I will not allow you to kill my friend. She met Erik’s gaze. The man’s Adam’s apple moved up and down. His intent gaze fixed on her breasts and drifted down to her wet drawers. The pulse in the side of his wide neck thumped wildly.

  Thalia cleared her throat. “Is there something you desire?”

  “Do not tempt my patience, witch.” Erik swore and turned to collect a bundle of cloth from the bank. “Here”—he thrust a strip of linen toward her—“take off those wet things and dry yourself. I have left clothing on the bank. There will be a bed for you in the wagon. Shortly, I will bring you some food.”

  Heart pounding, she stepped from the river. From Erik’s stance, he had no intention of leaving. She drew a deep breath and peeled off her wet clothes. No man had never laid eyes on her naked body before. Her face grew hot. She trembled and lowered her lashes.

  “You are soft and rounded”—Erik grasped her chin—“but small, far too small for a woman of eighteen summers. No wonder the king has failed to find a suitable match for you.” He cupped her breast, sighed and turned away. “Wait in the wagon for me, witch. I have found a vessel for you to use for your herbal tea. I suggest you make use of it immediately. I am not a patient man.”

  Sick to the stomach, Thalia dried off and dressed in the thin, cotton nightgown Erik had provided. She glanced down at her torn slippers and kicked them into the river. She collected a bunch of water lilies and searched the riverbank for other common herbs she could use. Unfortunately, the complicated spell would deplete her small cache of magyck. Stuffing the fragrant leaves into her wet shift, she made her way back to the wagon. Catcalls and whistles from the men followed her. She climbed inside, sat on the pile of animal skins, and began to tremble. I may well die this night.

  The sound of Erik’s voice brought her upright. She reached for the herbs, pressed the mixture into the small metal container and whispered the spell. “Cymbeline, cast your grace upon this brew to prevent a child born of pain and hate. As so I say, so mote it be.”

  Exhausted, she thrust the container at Erik the moment his head pushed through the canvas opening. “Here, cover the herbs with hot water and leave them to steep. I will require but a few sips each day.”

  “Very well.” Erik put a plate of food on the floor and handed her a jar of goose grease. “Use this to make my way easy, witch.”

  Thalia sipped the herbal tea in trepidation. The second she put down the cup Erik would grasp her. I will survive this… I must. Closing her eyes, she drew up her last reserve of magyck and bound it around her heart, to protect her love of all things pure. I am not here. I am in a rose garden and I will look up to see you, my beautiful Nightdragon, soaring high in the midnight sky. The Dragonsong flowed into her mind and, seeking comfort, she poured her remaining magyck into oblivion. In a burst of bright light, the world around her vanished and in that moment, she embraced the sanctuary of darkness. Goddess, I beg you … send your champion to help me.

  * * * *

  Drakka

  In the palace library, Lumos staggered against the wave of panic emanating from the Nightdragon. The book in his hand dropped to the floor. He grasped the back of a chair for purchase. Gods, what is it now?

  “Our mate is in danger.” The Nightdragon’s emotions flooded over Lumos. “This is your fault, Lumos—if you had allowed me flight, I would have located her.”

  The intensity of the beast’s grief pierced Lumos’s heart. Guilt soured his belly. He had disregarded the precious gift bestowed by the goddess, ignored his dragon’s advice, and now, in some gods-forsaken realm, his mate faced danger—alone. He had heard nothing—no song or plea for help had drifted into his consciousness.

  Calm yourself and tell me how you came by this information.

  “The song was less than a whisper, but her fear crushed my heart.” The Nightdragon’s voice speared into Lumos’s mind in a rush of despair. “Our mate is a mortal witch.”

  A witch? Grief hammered Lumos. Unable to stand a moment longer he dropped into the chair. He fought to calm the dragon. The beast rippled beneath his skin in an effort to force the change. Does she have a familiar—a cat, perhaps, or a beast close by you may contact?

  “I am seeking her familiar. Hold your questions, Lumos. Yes, there is a cat close by in great distress. I will mindspeak with the creature.”

  A familiar ache closed around Lumos’s heart. The dragon had spoken the truth. His desire for other females had vanished. Over the past few days, the loneliness surrounding him had become unbearable. The voice of his mate lingered in his mind. The need to have her close had become excruciating after finding a silk scarf upon the palace steps. The scent infusing the yellow silk had bewitched him and yet carried no mark of the owner. The Nightdragon had roared in triumph, declaring the feminine allure as belonging to their mate. If Thalia had entered Drakka, the Nightdragon would have recognized her immediately. They had searched for many miles and had found no trace of her. Of late, nothing made sense.

  Every waking hour he had listened intently for any trace of the Dragonsong, his world disintegrating by the hour. Taking the king’s advice, he had concentrated his thoughts on the battle to come, and had spent most of his day training the young Dragonfae males in how to fight with sword or magyck. H
e had worked as if in a trance, the thought of finding his mate consuming him.

  Dragon?

  “The cat goes by the name of Brew.” A wave of terror swept through the Nightdragon. “A mortal man—a Nomag—has misused Thalia. She is barely alive and surrounded by beasts of men. They are moving her to a place of banishment.”

  Anger raging out of control, Lumos jumped to his feet and spread his wings. He tightened his sword belt.

  I will kill the Nomag scum for touching Thalia. I will show no mercy and make them suffer. We leave at once.

  “Brew is a cat, Lumos, just a cat. He has no knowledge of realms or distance.” The Nightdragon gave a long, defeated sigh. “I have no idea of Thalia’s location other than she is in a Nomag realm. The cat will be our guide. He is following some distance behind the wagon, although, at this time, he has no idea of his direction.”

  Magyck crackled in the air, sending blue streaks in all directions. With a howl of anguish, Lumos punched the wood paneling. The dark surface cracked, splintering into jagged shards of oak. An overwhelming fear curled in his belly.

  We must put the safety of our mate in the paws of an ignorant cat? Gods, dragon, have you lost your wits?

  “It is more efficient to wait for a direction.”

  No, it is not.” Lumos paced up and down the room. Ask the cat if he knows the name of the king of the realm, or the name of the man who banished Thalia. Long minutes passed. Lumos’s skin burned, sweat trickled off his chin, and steam poured from his nostrils. He removed his jacket and flung it over a chair.

  Damn it, dragon—how much longer?

  “The king is Garro. The man Thalia calls Father. This man is responsible for her banishment.”

  Lumos turned toward the rows of bookcases. He raised a hand and a large leather-bound volume floated from a high shelf to land softly on the table. The pages turned swiftly then stopped. Lumos scanned the page running a finger down the list of Nomag realms. Kings with the name of Garro ruled three realms, Anast, Allerie, and Broclarre. Lumos rubbed the back of his neck.