Dragons Against Them (Kingdoms of Fire and Ice #2)(6)
To date, none of the peasants she’d spoken with had been willing to admit possession of such knowledge. But Rosalind was no fool. Alliances between the poorest of Forathians and the witches remained, she was sure of it. Eventually she would find someone whose tongue could be loosened with coin, and then her true course would be set. For while Forath’s high wizard, Haelan, might be able to conjure a world-bending portal like Edana’s wizard had, he had pledged to forever serve the king. As such, the wizard would never agree to send Princess Adelaide back to wherever she’d been these past twenty years—it would break their father’s heart. Unfortunately for him, Adelaide’s resumed absence was exactly what Rosalind needed to happen if she were to have any chance at Edana’s throne.
Yes, Adelaide had to be sent away once more. That, or be killed. But sending the girl off would be a hell of a lot less messy than arranging to have Adelaide murdered. As the woman was Tristan’s twin, Rosalind feared killing one might well lead to the death of the other. For as much ire as she carried for her life up to this point, Rosalind couldn’t live with herself if she caused pain to the one soul in this world who seemed to care about her above all else.
So to keep her brother safe, and because Haelan was unlikely to help further her cause, Rosalind now sought help from the only other source of magic she knew: the witches. Hopefully, they would agree to help once they heard the form of payment she planned to offer them in return.
Rosalind fumbled with her flint, a growing hunger sabotaging her steadiness of hand and patience. A shame I wasn’t born a dragon from Edana, able to produce a flame upon exhale, she thought for a brief moment, then quickly dismissed it. To be born a fire-breather, she would have also needed to be male—a gender she had no desire to be. Why wish to be made of brawn and breadth when charm and a soft bed had served her so well in the past? Oh, how furious Quinn would be to learn the number of men she had lured into her chambers. But she’d had good reason for each one, and all were bedded with the end goal of bringing Quinn alongside her when she rose to the throne.
A throne Adelaide had stolen the moment their father laid eyes upon her.
Rosalind worked her flint harder, faster. If only the family resemblance had been less striking. A resemblance she herself did not bear. But if magic had brought her long-lost half sister to Forath, surely magic could send her away once more. Rosalind was determined to see that it did—at any cost. She would have her crown yet, and so would Quinn.
The only question that remained was…when?
Soon she coaxed a fire to life, then set the fish above it, her stomach loudly voicing its displeasure in the delay. Hunger wasn’t something she experienced often. Nor was uncertainty, which lately had taken up residence in her mind. Uncertainty about her future, her quest, her plan…
A twig snapped outside the thicket. Rosalind spun on her seat to spy two large shadows approaching. In an instant, she was on her feet, a pair of short blades in her hands.
“Who goes there? Show yourselves.”
“Easy, lass,” a deep voice murmured. “We mean you no harm.”
One set of broad shoulders ducked beneath the opening to her makeshift home, then another. Both men straightened upon clearing the thorny bramble and halted across the fire from her. Judging by their mismatched tunics and primitive armor, these men were not of the royal guard. And though their hands appeared to be free of weapons, she knew better than to trust strangers in the woods. She pointed her blades in their direction.
“Who are you, then? And what is it you want?”
“Who we are is of no concern to you,” answered the larger of the two. Long russet hair was pulled back from his face, allowing her a clear view of eyes that matched the color of his locks. The man’s left eye appeared clouded, though, a scar radiating out from it both higher and lower upon his skin. “However, your questions in the village are a concern to us. Why do ye seek passage to the witches’ land?”
Rosalind worked to conceal the excitement that rose within her upon hearing those words. “Do you know the way?”
“Do no’ answer a question with a question, woman.” The other man spoke this time. His face was more youthful, his chest less broad. But the set of his jaw and darkness of his dull gray eyes left her feeling just as wary as the look of his companion. “What business do ye have with the witches?”
Rosalind lifted her chin. “I have a proposition for their clan.”
“A proposition?” asked the larger man. “And what is it ye are proposing, then?”
“’Tis nothing I shall discuss with anyone but their leader. Can you show me the way or not?”
The larger man stepped closer, his gaze unwavering and full of an unrepentant curiosity. “Aye.”
“How do I know this is not a trap set by Forath’s royal guards?”
“Do we look like any of King Jarin’s men, then?” asked the younger man.
“Disguises can easily be conjured,” she said.
The russet-haired man slowly knelt and plucked a long, stray twig from the ground. As he did so, his good eye began to glow the same russet color as his locks—the sign of a man with dragon’s blood. He rose with twig in hand and exhaled upon it. Instead of becoming encased in the ice that Forathian dragons possessed, the twig became engulfed by flame. Just as Rosalind opened her mouth to accuse him of being nothing more than a spy from Edana, he snapped the fingers of his empty hand. Instantly, ice replaced the flame. Gaze fixed upon her, he tossed the twig into the fire, where it settled with an unnatural hiss.