Dragonmark (3 page)

Her brother was ever rotten.

“Think you he'll come this year?”

“The Ancient Drakos? Nay, not likely. He never does. I'm told he cares nothing for pomp and noise.”

“I heard the brenin offered the Ancient Drakos the hand of his only daughter in marriage to join our ranks.”

Another nobleman scoffed. “I heard he'd give up one of his
sons
to him in marriage to procure him as our guardian. His skills are
that
great. 'Tis said none can defeat him.”

“Son, nothing. I heard he'd give up both testicles for it.”

They laughed at something that rang with truth, knowing their brenin. And it explained why Morla was dressed in such fine and expensive armor. No doubt she was hoping to do her father's bidding and catch the attention of one of the oldest, most lethal of the dragon clan. The mysterious Illarion Kattalakis who no one had ever seen.

Not even the dragons themselves. They merely whispered tales of him—as if afraid to say his name too loudly lest they somehow offend him with it.

He was more myth than reality. A shadowy sorcerer of unparalleled power and skills who hated humanity with legendary fervor. Older than time itself, he only left his cavernous den to prey on those who angered him. And those fools, he consumed with his incendiary breath.

The circulating tales said that he guarded ancient treasures and weapons forged by the old pagan gods. Some even believed he might be the keeper of the Holy Grail itself. Others speculated he'd been the snake who'd tempted Eve in the Garden of Eden.

Never had she known any creature to hold more outlandish speculations. Many claimed he was the inspiration for the new tale the Geats, Jutes, and Wulfings had been passing around that had recently come to their shores—the tale of the noble Beowulf, who'd been slain after a slave had stolen a golden cup from a mysterious dragon's lair. Furious over the theft, the dragon had razed their settlements, demanding the return of his enchanted cup and the head of its thief.

After all his noble battles and victories that included slaying the infamous Grendel and his mother, Beowulf had finally succumbed to the dragon's fierce prowess.

Some tales claimed Beowulf had slain the dragon before the Geat had died of his wounds, but others said that was a total fabrication made by Beowulf's clan in order to save face. That the dragon had reclaimed his cup and feasted mightily on the hearts and heads of all those who'd taken part in its theft.

It made her wonder what such a beast might really look like. Not that she cared. She hated all dragons for what they'd done to her father and people. The only good one was a dead one. She was merely curious about the creature that inspired such fanciful legends.

Nothing more.

Daydreaming about the coming day and how she wanted it to end—in her favor, of course—Edilyn prepared a platter for the stranger.

As she reached for a cup of mead, she felt a pair of angry eyes glaring at her. She glanced up to find Morla curling her lip in distaste at Edilyn's mismatched clothes.

Tall, slender, and with hair so golden, it appeared to have been spun by the fey, the noble maid dropped her gaze to the platter. “Don't you have food at home?”

Her dark-haired best friend, Lady Nesta, snorted. “No wonder she's the size of a man. She eats like three of them.”

Annoyed by the spoiled women who'd never known a day of starvation or hardship of any kind, never mind the grief that had plagued Edilyn all her life, she didn't bother to correct their misconception. They weren't worth her time. Instead, she took the platter to her guest, who seemed to be watching Morla and Nesta intently. Not that she blamed him. They were two of the richest, most beautiful women in their village, and every man, young and old, would sell his soul for a night with them.

If only they weren't quite so aware of it. And if they hadn't allowed that knowledge to go to their oversized heads. Heads that if they grew any larger, would overfill the hall and cause the two women to be unable to stand upright.

But that was their problem. Not hers.

Grateful she didn't have to live with those massive egos and petulant moods, Edilyn set the platter down next to her new friend. No sooner had she stepped back than the doors opened to admit their long-awaited guests of honor.

The dragon clan.

Her lips involuntarily curled as they entered the hall in all their expensive finery. Their dark leather armor was trimmed in gold and silver that glimmered in the bright sunlight as it spilled in through the windows. More beautiful than any human, they were here for the Winnowing—to choose the best, noblest warriors of her clan to be their partners in war.

And life.

Supposedly, it was the greatest honor to be chosen by them. The men and women of her clan clubbed each other for the chance and spoke of little else the rest of the year. All the eligible youth practiced for this day, hoping to be among the ones taken to live with them.

It was the last thing she wanted.

“Why do you tremble so?”

Rage. But she didn't answer the old man. She couldn't.

“Are you afraid?”

“Nay,” she scoffed.

“Not even a little?”

She shook her head. “Not even a little,” she repeated his words. “Merely concerned that I
might
make muster.”

“What do you mean?”

Pain lacerated her soul at his innocent question that forced her to remember things she wanted to keep buried. But what was the use? And before she could stop it, the truth tumbled out of her lips. “Every year I audition for the brenin with my skills, and I best all my clansmen.”

“Then what's the problem? Why aren't you mated to a dragon?”

“Don't want to be. Rather, I want the brenin to choose me as a marchoges.”

“But not for the dragons? Why?”

“Because she knows she'd break their backs and cripple them,” Gryffyth said as he walked past them.

His friends burst out laughing.

Stifling the urge to toss something at the arrogant prick, Edilyn narrowed her glare at Gryffyth's worthless hide while he and his cronies vanished into the crowd.

But she wasn't so callous.

She turned back toward the old man. “I've no interest in being chosen by the dragons. In fact, I never appear for the Winnowing. Rather, I withdraw before it begins. I want to stand on my own. But the brenin refuses me. Every year. He only wants draigogion for his army.”

And speaking of, the call rang out for the contestants to gather.

She glanced down at her guest. “Do you need anything else before I join them?”

“Nay, my lady. Good luck to you.”

“And to you, my lord…” Heat crept over her face as she realized how rude she'd been to him. “I'm so sorry that I forgot to ask your name. How thoughtless of me.”

“You've been anything but thoughtless, dear Edilyn. Call me Emanon.”

“Lord Emanon. It's been my pleasure to assist you.” She gave him a slight bow, then ran to join the others.

Emanon sat in silence as he watched Edilyn push her way through the crowd. Taller even than most of the men, she held an exotic kind of beauty that made her stand out from the others. Or maybe it was her zest for life. Her innocent exuberance in the face of their negativity.

She was a beacon through their dull storm.

He'd never seen anyone so determined in the face of adversity. Rising to his feet, he kept to the outer edge of the crowd so that he could watch her compete. Like a free-flowing ebony banner, her long black hair blew behind her as she raced to her place beside the others. Her cheeks were mottled bright red from her exertion while her ample breasts rose and fell with her excitement.

Aye, she had a lush, full body that said her appetite wasn't just for life, but was robust in all things.

Several of the women curled their lips or rolled their eyes at her approach.

She smiled in response and boldly wished them luck. She was such a cheeky, jovial lass, dressed in a garishly orange tunic that fell to her feet. It was interlaced with green and blue that seemed faded or smeared. She'd placed sprigs in her hair and horned helm. Emanon wasn't sure if she wanted to appear as a drunken sprite, a tousled flower …

Or a drunken bull that had rolled around a field for a bit.

And that forced a rare grin from him. If he could appreciate anything in life, it was that degree of defiance in the face of those who wished you ill.

“Did he come with you?”

Emanon narrowed his gaze at the man nearest him as he heard the brenin's gruff voice questioning Tarius Kattalakis. A rare Katagari Drakos, Tarius was the current leader of this group who'd come here to pick mates from the humans. It was a spring ritual they'd been practicing for decades now, and it left Emanon sickened.

Every year, the Drakos came, watched the humans, and opposed the Greek gods' decree for their people by selecting a mate when they all knew that only the Fates themselves were supposed to assign them their life partners. It was this kind of hubris that had caused their race to be first cursed.

Yet the Katagaria Drakos, because their progenitor Illarion was a son of Ares and had been biologically bonded against his will to the Arcadian prince who was a grandson of the goddess Nyx, thought themselves above it.

Dumbasses.

Illarion would never intervene on their behalf to save them from the wrath of the gods. Honestly, he had no greater love for their hybrid species than he did for humanity. If the truth were known, he'd tried his best to get his brother to leave them all to die after their creation. The only reason any Were-Hunter had ever survived was the benevolence of Maxis Drago. He was the one they should be currying favor to.

Not Illarion.

He was the one dragon who would gladly hand-feed them to their enemies, and laugh while they bled out at his feet. The son of Ares cared nothing for these creatures. Nothing for their races or their wars. He felt no obligation to them whatsoever.

And he never would.

Burn in Tartarus, you bastards.…

Their treatment of Edilyn was exactly why Illarion had no love of humanity. The whole problem with human beings was that they were so seldom humane. And those whose genetics had been combined with animals were even worse. Instead of being made better, they'd sunk to an all-new level of viciousness.

Emanon ground his teeth as he started to leave so that he wouldn't have to stomach another moment of their vile presence, and yet his gaze went back to Edilyn.

She rubbed at the bottle on a string she wore around her neck, and smiled a smile that enchanted him in a way nothing ever had. Damn. It left him breathless.

Worse? It quickened his blood and fired a need inside him to taste those lips. For the first time in his exceptionally long life, he actually desired a taste of human flesh for something other than a quick, bloody meal.

He hungered for her.

What the Hades?

And still the men in front of him continued to speak. “Nay, he's not here. But fear not. We are more than able to protect your village and people.”

“Did he not receive the offer to marry my daughter?”

Tarius sighed. “It's not that. They claim he's sterile.”

“I heard he's insane,” Bracis added. “As the first of our kind, he couldn't handle the transition from beast to man. While he physically survived, he broke mentally.”

“It's a shame.” The brenin let out a tired sigh. “Our enemies grow bolder and stronger. We lost half our best warriors in the last battle.”

“Well, we're here now and we'll take care of you.” Tarius turned his head back toward the contestants. “Who is that tacky brunette who keeps winning?”

“Edilyn?”

“Aye. She's here every year.” Scoffing, Tarius passed a smirk to Bracis. “She's a stout one, isn't she?”

The brenin shook his head. “I think she's hoping one of you will take her since no man among mine will have her.”

“Why's that?”

“She's an orphan with no property. No dowry. No family. All she has in this world is that old war bow she carries. Pathetic, really.”

And yet she who had so little held more kindness than any of the rest. The last thing that made her in Emanon's eyes was pathetic.

As he watched her racing against the others, his respect for her grew. They did everything they could to trip her, knock her from the path, or cause her to veer from the goal.

Edilyn didn't falter or stumble. Steadfast and determined, she ran with her head held high and kept her gaze on the goal, without regard to any of the others or the tricks they used to foil her journey. Nothing and no one could stop her.

In the end, she crossed that finish line first. Way ahead of the others.

It'd been a long, long time since he'd seen such intrepid courage. Instead of congratulating her for the achievement in spite of their ill behavior, they glared. Their hatred increased to such levels, he could feel it as a living creature slithering in the air around them all. It raised the hairs on the back of his neck to see such tangible evil.

Still, she continued on with resolute grace. She even glanced at him, smiled, and waved.

Stunned by that unexpected act, he gaped and felt the most peculiar fluttering inside his stomach. One that only fueled his hunger. He had no idea what it was. Never had he experienced anything like it.

Brushing at the perspiration on her brow, she went to retrieve her bow for the last round of games. He didn't miss the way her exotic features softened ever so slightly the moment her hand touched the wood.

Aye, it was exceptionally dear to her.

With an adorable bite to her lips that betrayed her uncertainty, she brushed her gloved fingers against her father's engraving as if taking comfort from it. Then she moved into place before her target and carefully nocked her arrow. She held the bow and arrow low to her thigh while she waited patiently for her turn.