“Someone murdered the queen consort of the Sandy Shoals court last winter.”
What?Elouan stopped abruptly, causing Teron to have to hurry back. “Poor Donovan! How is he?” While King Donovan’s father had proven himself a warmonger, Donovan showed more promise as a peacemaker while trying to rebuild the Sandy Shoals court. Now, to lose his mate barely a season into his reign.
“As you can expect, he’s beside himself. He and his mate were very close. His people kept her death a secret during the worst part of Donovan’s mourning to prevent enterprising alphas fromtrying to take over. I’m told he became irrational for a time. Some say he still is.”
The remaining mate sometimes succumbed to grief after the other died. Doubly so for a mate who died by violence. Mother died of an illness. It had taken Elouan and his brothers weeks to convince Father not to follow her. “Then I’ll say a prayer to the Goddess for him. Did they have young?”
“No.”
Not unusual. The Goddess seldom granted such a blessing these days. But double the devastation for Donovan. “I’ve met him a few times. Nice fellow. What of the court?”
“Holding together for now, but Donovan has no heir.”
“He had a brother, didn’t he?” Elouan recalled a thatch of bright blond hair protruding from a blanket back when Father first started introducing Elouan to other noble families. Strange that no one had mentioned the brother lately.
“No one has seen him for over sixteen summers and he’d have been scarcely more than a hatchling then. My sources say Donovan hid him on Terra to keep him safe. Though safe from his father or the constant fighting, who knows? My bet is on the father. Now there’s a dragon not worth his scales. Far be it from me to question the Goddess of Fire, but how she blessed him as king, I’ll never know.”
“Rumor said she didn’t.” But send the fledgling to the human realm? Elouan shuddered, recalling the pitfalls of Terra: pollution, cars, drugs. Not exactly a safe place. But no one having seen the boy in so long offered little hope of the omega surviving. Dragons didn’t do well away from home for very long. At least Elouan wouldn’t, and hadn’t on his brief forays into Terra.
The lines at the entryway had thinned now, so Elouan didn’t have to refuse if a guard motioned him forward. It wasn’t right that his rank afforded him so many privileges others didn’t have, like skipping lines.
They passed the first set of wards, designed to prohibit weapons. Elouan used to wonder how a ward knew, and conducted experiments with his brothers in his youth, seeing what could and couldn’t cross the line. A rock? Yes. A rock for a sling? The wards nearly took Elouan’s hand off in their haste to throw the potential weapon away.
He and Teron passed through the wards without incident.
Concentric circles carved into gray stone created ledges resembling stadium seating Elouan had witnessed on one of his forays in the human world, though far wider. An entire family could gather on a ledge. Terran humans used such structures for sporting events or musical performances. Here, the massive space accommodated close to three thousand individuals, though far fewer filled the seats today. High Reaches Court rarely gathered for entertainment. Usually, only the happiest or most tragic events took place here.
The architect of the bowl’s design had left the top open to the evening sky. Torches illuminated the area, evenly spaced along the stone walls surrounding the bowl, though the sun hadn’t fully set.
Teron wrapped a hand firmly around Elouan’s upper arm. “Don’t even think of turning back now, spending the evening reading in your room or sky-watching from the north tower.” He knew Elouan too well.
No putting off the inevitable. Elouan’s skin tingled as he crossed the second threshold, the wards rendering him unable to shift or perform magic—had he possessed any. As he entered the space, the cloying odor of competing perfumes stung his nose, making it impossible for him to pick out individual scents.
Family and friend groups gathered on the ledges while many more of the court clogged the aisles, still jockeying for the best positions. Room for three thousand, with only a third of the seating in use. Ah, gone were the glory days of the court.
A pretty young woman called, “Prince Elouan!” Not “Your Highness.” Did she mean to imply casual informality? Elouan vaguely recalled her name—Meg—and her desire to become his consort, but little else about her.
He winced at her overexcited exclamation and sly smile. She likely clung to the hope that she might still be a potential mate, while intimating to those around her that the heir favored her. No one with so much ambition, regardless of how she got there, ever made the final consideration, though Elouan wouldn’t tell her now. Not the time. Not the place.
He doubted the court, or the Goddess would approve the choice, and they must have their say. Regardless of whether the Goddess approved of Elouan, his mate must meet approval too. The wrong choice meant not only the mate’s rejection, but Elouan’s as well. Only a mated dragon could claim the throne as part of a blessed pair.
The Goddess would find him unfit to rule if he didn’t choose wisely. While not ruling wouldn’t overly bother him, the civil war that would be fought among those wishing to take his place did.
Teron subtly placed himself between Elouan and the woman. “Come,Your Highness. Your father waits.”
Elouan gave the woman a curt nod and continued on. Even rejection didn’t deserve rudeness. Thank the Goddess for Teron to ease the way, and for his subtle correction of her lack of protocol. While Elouan didn’t normally stand on protocol, tonight was a formal occasion, the kind his tutors had gone to great lengths to prepare him for.
Tonight wasn’t about Elouan or his future reign, the mere thought of which tied his stomach into knots. Tonight, the court gathered to celebrate another, whom he refused to overshadow. A celebration even he, who avoided crowds when possible, would brave the masses for.
Elouan wended his way through assorted court members, all resplendent in their finery, making his way toward the imposing figure waiting near the center of the bowl, his ruby-bedecked and seldom-worn crown serving as a beacon. Elouan let out a relieved breath at the sight of the man he’d spent his life idolizing.
Men and women alike watched Elouan, some with envy, some with feigned admiration, others still with cold calculation. Fickle lot they were, but all moved aside for the crown prince.
They were Elouan’s people. He’d one day take his father’s place as king. Therefore, he’d treat them all fairly, regardless of his personal opinions or whether they were even members of this court. A ruler must avoid favoritism at all costs.
He didn’t engage in conversation, or they’d converge, demanding his time. Elouan would mingle after the official ceremony, and bear their insincere fawning. His leather pants and vest, dyed a deep shade of green, weren’t exactly comfortable, but he could tolerate them for a few hours and then dash back to his room to change. The cloak? He’d happily drop the richly embroidered garment off a cliff, trappings of his stationor not.
His father’s official mien softened when he spotted Elouan. “Son!” King Locryn Thorne clapped his hands on Elouan’s broad shoulders, snuffling his hair in a dragon greeting reserved for family and close friends. They were far enough from the crowd for Elouan to distinguish his father’s scent, breathing in the familiar comfort.