Chapter 8

Donovan was sitting in front of the fireplace, nursing a glass of mead, when I entered the room. The skirts of my best dress swished against the rock floor as I moved. Renata had always helped me put up my hair, but I’d done my best alone. I could only hope it wouldn’t cascade down my back in the middle of this important dragon ritual, but I had my suspicions. Trying to work without being able to see the back of my head had been daunting.

Before he knew I was there, Donovan had stared into the fire, his shoulders slumped. When he heard my footsteps, he straightened and turned to regard me.

For a moment his eyes seemed to soften, but perhaps it was merely a trick of the firelight. He had dressed in his finest as well. His linen shirt rivaled the green of his eyes.

I wore the emerald he’d given me on a shorter chain, which placed the jewel in the hollow of my throat. Donovan looked almost surprised to see me wearing it. I wondered what he’d done with the dragon charm I’d given him. Thrown it in the fire most likely.

“Would you like a glass of mead? There’s time if you’re quick,” he said.

“No, thank you,” I replied. “I’d rather spend that time discussing what I’m supposed to do in this ritual.”

“Nothing to discuss. You don’t have a speaking part. You’re a participant, the same as I am. You’ll figure it out.” He rose to his feet, setting his glass aside. I wanted to pick it up and dash the contents in his face. Did he think to unnerve me by not telling me what the ritual entailed? I was a witch. I’d proved to him I could do impromptu magic. I wouldn’t be fazed by any dragon, non-magical ceremony.

He headed for the door, but hesitated before turning the knob. “Nice touch wearing the emerald. Anyone would think you prized it.”

I bit back a hot retort because rituals required calm and focus, and neither would be possible if I allowed Donovan to ignite my temper.

Chuckling sarcastically, he passed through the doorway. I followed, determined to keep up with his long strides despite my hampering skirts.

Dragon folk proceeded ahead of us in the corridor. No one spared us a look until Val, Rabb, and Emily fell in behind us.

“Are you really bringing that witch to our sacred rite, Donovan? Are you trying to rub our faces in her treachery? Her very presence will pervert everything we stand for,” Val hissed in a furious whisper.

Donovan stiffened, but kept walking.

“Pathetic witch. You’d better keep your mouth shut tonight. Nobody wants to hear anything you might have to say. Keep your head down, and don’t make eye contact with any dragon. You don’t deserve to be acknowledged.” Rabb kept his voice low, but his words still struck me, full of venom.

I didn’t expect Donovan to leap to my defense, not after what had transpired between us in the field, but his continued silence hurt.

“Not so mouthy tonight, are you?” Val asked, satisfaction oozing from her voice. “Hiding behind your husband? Yet, he’s remarkably silent.”

Stone-faced, I continued to follow Donovan. Inside, rage and humiliation churned in my gut, but I strove desperately for the cool serenity needed for rituals. It didn’t matter what they said to me. They didn’t exist to me. Not tonight and not at this moment.

We swept into a vast chamber where a long stone table set for dinner dominated the furnishings. Would everyone in the clan sit at this table? It certainly appeared big enough, yet I couldn’t imagine I would be allowed to break bread with people like Balthasar and the dragon council.

I scanned the room for a small table set into a corner—someplace where they could hide me— but found nothing. Perhaps I would be made to stand?

Rabb and his family moved away from us as fast as they could, as did all the dragon folk. Many of them gasped when they saw me, and more than one face reddened with outrage.

Donovan and I stood separated out, and the hatred directed at me nearly crippled me. I wanted to edge closer to Donovan, but I didn’t dare in case he’d resent it.

Every particle of me wanted to turn tail and flee, but I held my ground.

“She’s not welcome,” said a man with a heavy dark beard and piercing gray eyes. Rumbles of agreement from the crowd.

“I was told to bring her,” Donovan declared, his lips pulled back in a feral snarl.

“By who?” the bearded man demanded.

“By Balthasar and the entire council,” said the red-haired priestess who’d married us as she stepped from behind a group of dragon folk.

“Mortal spouses never attend this ritual,” complained a shrill female voice from the back of the room. “Why should she?”

“Because she is a witch, and she can partake of the magic tuber,” said the priestess. “It’s that simple. I don’t like it much, but I agree it is her right. Besides, she’ll be sick unto death if she stops eating it. You know once you’ve taken it more than six times, you must continue to ingest it or the aging process begins again, only painfully accelerated. You wouldn’t want to condemn her to death, would you? Much as we despise her, we are not murderers, are we?”

Much shuffling of feet and resigned muttering ensued.

My heart raced. I knew I wasn’t supposed to speak at all, but nobody knew I’d never eaten the tuber, so I didn’t have to participate tonight. I’d always been determined never to taste it; tonight especially should be no different.

“Donovan, I should leave.” I plucked at his sleeve, too agitated to remember not to use his name.

Hisses spread sibilantly around the room. Outrage that I’d dared speak, or that I’d used his name.

The black look Donovan directed at me sent waves of fear through me.

“I asked you politely not to be a fool tonight. Or a martyr. You’re not going to commit suicide because you can’t take the heat. You’re not taking that way out ever.” Donovan shrugged his shoulder to dislodge my hand on his arm. I let go.

“I’ve never eaten the tuber before,” I whispered. “So I don’t have to start tonight. In fact, I won’t. I refuse. I’m not a martyr any more than I’m a thief or a liar.”

More gasps and murmurs from the crowd.

Donovan turned to stare at me incredulously. “What did you just say?”

I wished there weren’t a hundred people milling around, hanging on my every word, but there were.

“Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve thought the dragons had the right of it,” I said, struggling to keep my voice from trembling. “You know that better than anyone. At least I thought you did. I didn’t have a say in the decision to grow the tubers, eat them, or continue to eat them after the dragons demanded we stop. But I do have a say on whether or not I, personally, eat them. So I never have.” I lifted my chin. “And I never will.”

“But then you’ll age and die in less than a century.” Donovan stared at me as if I’d betrayed him, rather than freed him from an unwanted marriage that would last his lifetime.

I shrugged. “So be it.”

“But that’s not what the king intended,” said Donovan.

“He’s never commanded me to eat the tuber. Why should he?” I wanted to wipe my sweaty palms on my skirts, but somehow managed not to. “My own mother can’t get me to eat them. Or my grandmother, and she leads our coven. I’m perfectly prepared to get old and die like my father and my half-brothers will. Witches aged and died before Eleanora dug up that box; what’s one more to follow in their footsteps?”

Donovan continued to stare at me. “You’ve seriously never eaten the tubers?”

“You’ll have ask my coven if my word’s not good enough for you,” I said through stiff lips. I gathered up my skirts. “Or better yet wait to see if I sicken and die. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to leave.”

Without waiting for an answer, I swept out of the room.