The Fire Lord's Lover - 1 (2 page)

   Dominic held up his hands, his own magic instinctively responding to the assault. White, blue, gray—he could call the entire spectrum of fire magic except for the black, but only the red fire did any damage, and his father easily squelched the blaze before it could sizzle the tiny fibrous hairs off his monstrous plants.

   "Come on, lad. You can do better than that," said Mor'ded. And increased the magic twofold.

   Dominic gasped for breath. The blackness slid down his throat and into his lungs, charring them until he could not breathe. The pain he could withstand, but the suffocation always defeated him. He dropped to one knee. His magic flared again, and he imagined he felt the power of the black fire within him, the flame that burned only in the mind. Dominic tried to call it forth, but as always, nothing happened.

   He always forgot how bad the pain could be. How could he forget?

   Dominic had been wounded in battle many times. His men whispered that his elven blood made him impervious to pain. They did not know his mind had been tempered in fire, that the cut of a sword or sting of a bullet seemed a minor ache compared to the agony of his father's magic.

   And Dominic knew he couldn't possess the power of black fire, as much as he wished for it. The gift would have been revealed when he reached puberty, when any elven powers first appeared, and he would have been sent to Elfhame with the rest of the chosen children. Only those with small magics stayed in the human world.

   Yet his father continued to test him again and again, as if he suspected his son held stronger power as well. Or perhaps Mor'ded just enjoyed torturing him.

   Dominic's lungs began to falter, his breath reduced to no more than a strangled wheeze of agony. His other knee collapsed and he fell to all fours, cursing his weakness. Cursing his father.

And suddenly the burning fire ceased.

   Blessedly cool air caressed his cheeks and he sucked in a deep breath. Dominic resisted the urge to run his hands over his face, his hair—to reassure himself that he stood unharmed as he'd done the first time he'd endured one of his father's trials. Mor'ded had laughed at him, and Dominic had vowed never to give the man the satisfaction of that pleasure again.

   Dominic rose with elven grace.

   Mor'ded studied him with narrowed eyes. "No elf could withstand such pain and not instinctively call forth his own magic in defense. Again you've proven how truly weak you are… and yet…"

   Dominic let out a tired sigh. He did not bother using the blue healing fire. His body might be whole, but it always took some time for his mind to heal from the memory of the pain. And he rarely used so much of his power; he felt tired unto death. "Either destroy me completely or allow me to leave. I'm halfhuman, you know."

   "Indeed, indeed." Mor'ded chuckled, lifted his scepter, and the door of his chamber flew open with a breath of fire. "You look so elven I forget you're half animal. Go lick your wounds, then. I want you rested for the feast tonight, and of course, your marriage tomorrow."

   Dominic halted in midstep. He had forgotten the date. Easy to do, since he'd almost forgotten what his intended looked like. He'd met Lady Cassandra a few times and could only recall a plain wisp of a girl with brownish hair and eyes. "Is it tomorrow, then? I suppose it's best to get it over with."

   Mor'ded rolled the scepter between his palms, his black eyes glittering. "It will make the humans happy, seeing my son wed to one of their finest aristocrats. And who knows? Perhaps you will breed true and produce another champion."

   Dominic sighed. Fatigue shrouded him and it took all his will to pick up his feet and put one before the other again. He had realized years ago that it would be pointless to fight the destiny his father had forced upon him. If Mor'ded wanted him to take a wife and breed champions, so be it.

   It mattered only that Dominic never allowed them to be used against him.

   When he left Mor'ded's room his feet took him to the tower stairs and not his own chambers. Halfway up the curving staircase a wave of nausea overtook him, and he allowed himself a brief moment of weakness. In the dark, where none could see. He felt again the searing of his flesh and the constriction of his lungs. Sweat broke out on his forehead while his body trembled in wave upon wave of remembered pain. But he gritted his teeth against the sobs that threatened to rise from his chest, and for a brief moment pictured his father's slim neck between his battle-hardened hands.

   He thrust the futile image away and began to climb again. The elven lord could level London if he so chose. Dominic's strength would never be a match against Mor'ded's, and he'd been forced to accept that.

   But he had won a victory today. He'd made his father proud enough to call him son before the entire court. Dominic would grasp that slender victory, as he'd grasped even smaller accomplishments over the years.

   He shoved open the wooden door and stepped out onto the flat roof of the tower. Humid air caressed his skin; a light breeze swept his silver hair against his cheeks. The metallic smell of the dragon teased his nose, and he glanced across the rooftop at the huge beast.

   Ador raised his black-scaled head and blinked at Dominic, his red eyes glowing even in the overcast day. Strange eyes with elongated pupils with black lines radiating from them, separating the red color like pieces of a pie. The dragon's leatherlike wings lay tucked against his sides, appearing deceptively small against his long, sinuous body.

   Dominic removed his woolen coat and spread it out in his usual place at the base of a merlon and sat, his back against the stone. He leaned his head against the hard surface and closed his eyes with a sigh of utter weariness.

   The dragon shifted. Dominic heard it in the slide of scale on stone, felt it in the tremble of the floor beneath his feet. It had once frightened him, the sheer size of the beast. But no more. He'd gotten used to the beast and Ador… well, the dragon had finally managed to tolerate him.

   "Do you remember the first time I came up here, Ador?" Dominic didn't wait for the dragon to answer. He rarely received a response to his musings. But for Dominic it was enough that someone listened. "Father had tested my magic by burning Mongrel to ashes. He was a good dog and a loyal friend. I didn't think I'd ever forgive myself for not having enough magic to protect him."

   The pungent smell of the Thames swept across the tower, even at this height, and for a moment, Dominic thought he could hear the muffled sounds of the city below them.

   "It was the first time I realized I could no longer allow myself to care for anyone. Man nor beast. For Father would always use them to test my magic." Dominic blocked the images of those who had suffered because of him. He'd found it much easier to bear the pain himself. "But my human weakness for companionship made me think of you. All alone, atop your tower. And then I realized Father would never harm his dragon-steed. That I could care for you, at least. Even if you couldn't return the sentiment." Dominic cracked a hopeful eye. But Ador appeared to have fallen back to sleep, his lungs like a great bellows pumping beneath those black, shiny scales.

   Dominic sighed and allowed the solitude of their high perch to settle over him. The world seemed very far away up here. The wars, the court, his father—all dwindled to minute specks of matter. One final small tremor shook him, dispelling the last memory of pain. And when he spoke again his voice held the coldly rigid control it always did.

   "I have done well, in most respects, to be like my father. Remote and untouchable, concerned only with my own pleasure. But you know the truth of me, don't you, Ador? Whether you willed it or not, you've been forced to hear my true thoughts over the years." Dominic scrubbed a weary hand across his brow. "This elven face of mine is deceiving, for I've been cursed with an all-too-human heart."

   Ador snorted and his wing twitched, his only reaction to Dominic's damning statement. Ah well. Dominic should consider that a remarkable response. Usually the dragon resembled nothing more than a still lump of shiny black coal.

   Dominic rose and arched his back, wincing at a stab of pain. Just an ordinary pain, though, from an old bullet wound in battle. He smiled with relief that it held none of the taint of black fire magic. "Are you aware I'm to be married on the morrow? A dangerous proposition for one such as I. I almost feel sorry for the girl… but the aristocracy are used to being breeding stock, are they not?"

   He picked up his coat and slung it over his back. His mind felt settled again, the memory of the burning fading to a manageable degree. Dominic couldn't be sure if the dragon's quiet presence soothed him or if the release of his thoughts brought him peace. He knew only that he always healed faster atop the tower.

   He'd taken a few steps toward the door when the dragon's rumbling words stopped him.

   "I smell a change in the wind."

   Dominic turned and stared into those red eyes. "What do you mean?"

   Ador, of course, did not answer. He closed his eyes again and huffed a small stream of smoke through his nostrils.

   Dominic considered the implications of the dragon's words. Ador had once told him his father was mad. An obvious statement, it seemed, and yet those words had allowed Dominic to deal with his father time and again. So he did not think the dragon referred to something as simple as the coming of the king. Yet no matter how he twisted the statement around in his head, he could not fathom it.

   Ah well. How could Dominic know the turnings of a dragon's mind? It would become clear in time… or until Ador chose to make it clear.

Two

Lady Cassandra Bridges knelt on the wooden step of the pew in front of her and pressed her palms together. The small chapel lay shrouded in shadow, the gray clouds failing to light the stained-glass windows above the altar. Several students surrounded her, and so Cassandra kept her voice to lower than a whisper. "Almighty God, please let my new husband be happy with me tomorrow—"

   She started at the light touch on her shoulder, turning to face Sister Mary, who only nodded her veiled head toward the open chapel door. Cassandra mutely followed the sister down the aisle, noting with satisfaction that none of her classmates noticed her departure. She'd worked hard to make herself almost invisible to them, fostering no friendships or acquaintances.

   They stepped out into the long hall with its arched roof and mosaic-tiled floor, their footsteps echoing softly over scenes of glorious battles and cherubic angels. Sister Mary slowed to walk beside Cassandra.

   "You must be sure to pay extra attention during your private lesson today," said the blue-eyed nun.

   Cassandra mutely nodded, waiting for the other woman to explain herself. She'd learned that if she kept her mouth closed, people talked more freely than if she asked them a hundred questions.

   Sister Mary clasped her hands before her bosom. "General Raikes—your intended—has won the king today. So you must be even more diligent in your studies, for when you go to court, you will not only have to impress the Imperial Lord, but King George as well."

   Cassandra's heart fluttered with excitement. Not because her future husband had accomplished what no other man had done for over a hundred years. Not because she would live under the same roof as the king. But because the king's most trusted advisor, Sir Robert Walpole, would be coming to Firehame. Having the counsel of the leader of the Rebellion might make her task easier.

   "So you must listen well to Father Thomas," continued Sister Mary, a slight hitch to her breath at the mention of the handsome priest. "Practice your curtsies and table manners and forms of address, so you will do our school proud."

   Cassandra glanced at the nun. She required a response. "Yes, sister."

   The nun nodded with satisfaction. Sister Mary had elven blood somewhere in her family line, for Cassandra caught the brief flash of a halo around the other woman's head, the brilliant white plumage of angel's wings behind her shoulders. The illusion faded, though, at Sister Mary's next words. "Although I can't imagine anyone not paying close attention to Father Thomas." A small sigh escaped her pretty mouth.

   Cassandra stifled a smile. She didn't blame the nun, despite the other woman's vows of chastity. The handsome priest would cause any woman's heart to yearn for just a touch of his hand. Indeed, Cass had even once thought herself in love with him, when he'd first come to tutor her.

   Sister Mary stopped just outside a heavy wooden door, a relief of elven figures being warmed by rays of light from heaven carved into the oak surface. "Do you wish me to accompany you inside?"

   Cassandra heard the note of longing in that request but had to shake her head. The staff had strict instructions from the headmaster to never enter this room. And despite Sister Mary's longing to catch a glimpse of Father Thomas, it would be safer for her not to become too familiar with the priest.

   The nun sighed and left, the long sweep of her robes floating back down the hall, her wings reappearing and flowing in her wake like some feathered train. Cassandra took a breath and slowly turned the doorknob, allowing not a hint of a squeak, a ghost of a sound, to announce her presence. Although her fellow students chose to wear the silk gowns befitting their aristocratic status, Cass had years ago traded them for soft, brushed wool and modest-sized hoops. Her skirts did not rustle, nor did her hoops catch on the door frame.

   She closed the door as silently as she'd opened it.

   Father Thomas stood with his back to the room, his hands on the windowsill, contemplating London's dreary skies. Tables littered the room where he'd taught her all the card games with which the court amused itself. Near the columned fireplace sat two velvet chairs and a tea tray, arrayed with meticulous precision. A pianoforte waited on the left wall, music sheets carefully arranged for her instruction.

   But the middle of the room lay bare, nary a rug or carpet to break the smooth expanse of flagstone. Her true lessons took place within that empty space.

   Cassandra waited with bated breath. Father Thomas appeared deep in thought, unaware of his surroundings. One of his ancestors had ties to Dreamhame, for the man possessed some of that sovereignty's elven power of illusion and glamour. He often startled Cass by appearing silently at her side. Had her tutor really made such a mistake, or had he orchestrated a clever trap?

   She slowly removed the cloth-of-gold belt from around her waist. A tune formed in her head. She felt the slight shiver of elven magic run through her blood as her feet began to move to the tempo of the music in her mind. Her body trembled in anticipation of the dance; the kettledrum pounding a growing beat, the flute twittering its notes, the bassoon growling beneath the increasing tempo.

   Cassandra wrapped the ends of her belt firmly in both hands and allowed the music to possess her. It fired her blood, strengthened her muscles, gave her a speed that surpassed all but an elven lord's. She danced across the room within the blink of an eye. Looped the belt around Father Thomas's neck and twisted.

   His hands scrabbled at the cloth around his throat. She could feel his magic rising within him in defense of the attack. But speed and surprise aided her. His body's need for air overwhelmed his instinct for the magic. He fell, his heavier weight bringing Cass to the floor with him, knocking over a small mahogany table and shattering the pale blue vase that sat atop it.

   Lady Cassandra squeezed until Father Thomas stopped struggling. Had she really caught him by surprise, then? Had he broken the rule he'd pounded into her over the years? "You were distracted," she accused him.

   He didn't respond. Fear fluttered in her stomach, and she loosened her hold. "Thomas?"

   He grunted and she slid her belt off his neck, then tossed it aside as she crawled over his body to look into his face. Despite the slight blue tinge to his full lips and the scowl tightening his brow, he still managed to look incredibly handsome. The annoyance in his gray eyes softened to something else as Cass continued to study him with genuine alarm.

   "Have I hurt you?"

   He smiled. "My pride more than anything else."

   Lady Cassandra humphed. "Because you were bested by a woman?"

   "No. Because I was bested by my student."

   She suddenly realized their faces lay only inches apart. That she sat close enough to him to smell the scent of his cologne. Cass scrambled backward, smashing her hoops against the wall. "Well I should think," she continued, "that you'd be pleased with yourself, Viscount Althorp. Isn't the best teacher the one whose student surpasses him?"

   He sat up, rubbing at the red mark around his throat, his priestly garb twisted around his lean body. Cass never understood how he'd managed to fool so many with that clothing. He had the eyes of a wicked man.

   They looked at her with a glitter of wickedness even now. "Perhaps. And I suppose the timing is fortuitous, since you're to be married on the morrow."

   Cassandra abruptly rose and he copied her movement, his eyes never leaving hers. He reached out to touch her hand and she turned away, facing out the same window he'd been standing at but a moment ago. "You've heard that he has won the king?"

   "Of course."

   Cassandra didn't need to name her intended. They both knew of whom she spoke. And suddenly her doubts overwhelmed her. If only she had inherited some of that elven beauty, perhaps she wouldn't be so unsure of winning him over. Her brown hair had a hint of red, her brown eyes a touch of gold, but her appearance held nothing unusual enough to tempt him. Fie, the nuns likened her to a little brown wren. She lowered her voice to a near whisper. "The very thought of him frightens me sometimes. I think he is more elven than human. I worry I shan't be able to please him."

   "Cass." Thomas's own voice lowered to a husky timbre. "Look at me."

   She never should have spoken of her fears. Not to him. Truly, not to anyone. But her marriage had always seemed a distant thing, something she needn't worry about for a long time. The day had come faster than she had been prepared for.

   When she didn't turn around, Thomas clasped her shoulders and spun her, forcing her to look at him. "You don't have to go through with this."

   She looked into those gray eyes and saw to her utter astonishment that he meant what he said. "Do not allow me to give in to a moment of cowardice, Thomas."

   "I'm serious." His hand brushed her cheek.

   When he'd first come to tutor her, she would have given her life for that touch. But Thomas had kept himself aloof, recognizing her infatuation for what it was. Or so she had thought.

   "Come away with me," he said. "You don't have to go through with this. The Rebellion will find someone else to marry the bastard."

   Just the thought that she would stray from the path laid out for her dizzied Cassandra for a moment. Nearly every day of her life had been in preparation for her marriage to the Imperial Lord's champion. The thought that she wouldn't fulfill her destiny set her adrift. "It would be impossible."

   He misunderstood her. "No, it wouldn't. I've given this a lot of thought over the past few days. I'm the most skilled spy in the Rebellion, Cass. I can get you out of Firehame and into one of the neighboring sovereignties before anyone suspects you're even missing. I can keep you safe."

   She shook her head and his temper flared. "You are going to your death, Lady Cassandra."

   Her own temper retaliated in response. "You've known this for years. Need I remind you that you are the one who taught me the death dances? You are the one who swayed me to the Rebellion's cause. How dare you take advantage of my cowardice to offer me this false hope."

   "It's not false." He picked up her hands and went down on one knee. "Marry me."

   "I cannot."

   "Why?"

   "Because I don't love you."

   His breath hitched. She hadn't meant to put it so baldly. "You don't love the bastard either. And you can't marry
him
."

   She pulled her hands out of his. "I can. I will. That's different and you know it. It's a path I decided to take long ago. I've made my peace with God and am willing to risk my immortal soul."

   "Don't spout that holy drivel at me, Cassandra. This priestly garb is nothing but a disguise, you know."

   She couldn't help the half smile that formed on her mouth. "And well do I know it, Viscount Thomas Althorp."

   He stood, raking his gold hair away from his eyes, scowling at her stubbornness. "You used to love me, once."

   "I admit I was infatuated with you. How could I not be? Besides my father, you're the only man with whom I've spent any company." She didn't mention her betrothed. She'd been allowed out of the confines of the school to meet with him on several occasions. But they had all been formal functions, and Dominic Raikes had barely seemed to notice her.

   Thomas made a strangled sound, stepped forward, and roughly took her into his arms. And then he kissed her.

   Cassandra had never been kissed before. He caught her completely unawares, and at first she could do nothing but study the peculiar sensation of having a man's mouth on her own. Warm, wet… and decidedly odd. She couldn't quite decide whether she liked the experience.

   Thomas pulled back his head and stared down into her face. "You don't feel a thing, do you?"

   She frowned. "What exactly am I supposed to be feeling?"

   He let out a sigh of exasperation and kissed her again.

   Cass wondered if it would feel the same when her intended finally kissed her. Although she couldn't be sure if he would, not knowing if it was necessary for the act of… procreation. He'd made it very clear he would do only his duty and nothing more. That he viewed her as his breeding stock.

   The thought made her try to respond to Thomas. This might be her only chance to experience a true kiss. She cautiously curled her hands around his shoulders, which made him moan and lean even closer to her, nearly bending her backward with the force of his mouth.

   Cassandra could think of nothing other than the pain in her back and the need to breathe.

   Thomas pulled away and raised his golden brows. "Despite your lack of enthusiasm, I know you aren't frigid," he muttered.

   "What do you mean? I'm not the slightest bit cold. Indeed, your hold is nearly suffocating me with warmth."

   He straightened and set her away from him. "You could come to love me, you know."

   "I'm not destined for love. I knew that the moment I decided to join the Rebellion."

   He spun and sought out the chair by the fireplace, sat with his elbows propped on his knees and stared into the embers. "You've always been stubborn. Once you set your sight on something, there's no changing your mind. I had to try though." He glanced up at her, gold hair tumbling over his brow. "Do you know how many assassins we've set on the elven lords? And they've all failed, Lady Cassandra. Every last one of them."

   The look in his eyes frightened her. She prayed to God for courage and took a moment to compose herself. She smoothed her sleeves, fluffed her skirts. Their lesson today had not gone as she had thought it would. Fie, she had never imagined having such a conversation with Lord Althorp. Had never imagined that the man who'd always reassured her would now require that same sentiment back.

   She folded her hands in front of her and gave him a cheeky grin. "How many of them managed to nearly strangle you to death, Thomas?"

   He couldn't seem to resist smiling back at her. "Confound it, girl. I can't help but admire you. There's nothing I can say to change your mind, is there?"