Part 2: The King’s Prisoner
Freya had always imagined that if she were ever imprisoned in the royal palace, there would be chains.
Possibly rats.
Certainly a bucket.
Instead, she had been given a bedroom larger than her entire childhood home, a bath filled with rose petals and a wardrobe containing dresses worth more than the annual income of her village.
She was beginning to suspect the Dragon King was very bad at imprisonment.
“This is ridiculous,” she told the maid arranging fresh flowers beside her bed.
The maid, a nervous young woman named Elsi, glanced towards the door.
“His Majesty ordered that you be made comfortable.”
“His Majesty ordered my execution an hour ago.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“And now he’s sending me flowers?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Does he do this with all his prisoners?”
“I wouldn’t know, my lady. Most of them are dead.”
“Comforting.”
Elsi fled.
Freya examined the room.
Two windows. One balcony. Three doors. Four armed guards outside.
And absolutely no explanation for the memory she’d stolen.
She still felt it beneath her skin, like a splinter she couldn’t remove.
The dying woman.
The newborn.
Tairn’s promise.
Never let her discover she’s mine.
She had spent twenty-seven years believing her father was an ordinary soldier who’d died before she was born.
Her mother had told her so.
Her mother had told her many things.
Apparently, honesty was not hereditary.
The door opened.
Tairn entered without knocking.
Freya was sitting cross-legged on the enormous bed, eating grapes.
“Do you always enter a woman’s bedroom uninvited?”
“This is my palace.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
His expression suggested he was reconsidering the wisdom of sparing her life.
Good.
She was reconsidering it herself.
He had changed out of his armour into a black shirt, open at the throat. Without the metal and ceremonial cloak, he looked less like a monster carved from volcanic rock.
More like a dangerously attractive man with appalling social skills.
He stopped beside the fireplace.
“What did you see?”
Freya swallowed a grape.
“Several things. Your throne room. Your guards. An alarming amount of exposed cleavage among the nobility.”
“Freya.”
“Then there was the memory.”
He went still.
“What memory?”
“A cottage. A woman dying. A baby.”
The fire in the hearth flared.
Tairn’s expression emptied.
“What else?”
“You.”
His jaw tightened.
“You were holding a blanket. You promised to keep the baby safe.”
The flames turned blue.
“That is impossible.”
“You’re telling me. I was supposed to die today, and now I’m eating grapes in a bedroom the size of a cathedral.”
He crossed the room so quickly she barely saw him move.
One moment he stood by the fire.
The next, his hands were planted on either side of her against the bed.
Heat rolled over her.
“Tell me exactly what I said.”
Freya met his eyes.
“Never let her discover she’s mine.”
Something flickered across his face.
Not recognition.
Confusion.
He stepped away.
“I have never spoken those words.”
“I watched you say them.”
“Then you saw a lie.”
“Do you remember being there?”
“No.”
“Do you remember my mother?”
“No.”
“Do you remember anything about that night?”
His silence answered.
Freya slowly put down her grapes.
“You don’t, do you?”
Tairn turned towards the window.
“I remember every battle I’ve fought. Every treaty I’ve signed. Every life I’ve taken.”
He paused.
“Except there are places in my past I cannot enter.”
Freya stared.
“Missing memories?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know.”
That was considerably more disturbing than she’d expected.
A king who could incinerate armies was frightening enough.
A king who couldn’t remember what he’d done was worse.
Especially when he was standing in her bedroom.
“Someone has been stealing your memories,” she said.
Tairn looked at her sharply.
“That is not possible.”
“Neither is a condemned prisoner stealing dragonfire, yet here we are.”
He didn’t answer.
Freya stood.
“Touch me.”
His expression changed.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard.”
“Freya, you do not understand what you’re asking.”
“Well, that’s rather becoming the theme of my day.”
He looked at her outstretched hand.
“I have killed people with less contact than that.”
“You touched me in the throne room.”
“And I nearly lost control.”
“Of your fire?”
His eyes darkened.
“Of considerably more than that.”
Oh.
That was interesting.
Freya felt warmth rise in her cheeks.
Entirely inconvenient.
She stepped closer.
“Then perhaps we should both practise self-control.”
His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth.
“That would be wise.”
“Excellent. Hold my hand.”
For several seconds, neither moved.
Then Tairn reached for her.
His fingers brushed hers.
Golden sparks leapt between them.
Freya gasped.
The bedroom vanished.
Another memory seized her.
A corridor beneath the palace.
A locked iron door.
Tairn stood before it, arguing with a woman dressed in silver.
Freya couldn’t see the woman’s face.
But she heard her voice.
“You cannot keep the child.”
“She is under my protection.”
“She is the last one.”
“Then she will remain the last.”
The woman laughed.
“Dragons do not make promises, Tairn. They make mistakes.”
She lifted one hand.
A silver blade flashed.
And drove straight into his chest.
Freya screamed.
The vision broke.
She staggered against him.
Tairn caught her waist.
His body was warm, solid and entirely too close.
For one absurd second, she noticed that he smelled of cedarwood and smoke.
Then she saw the blood.
A thin red line had appeared beneath the open collar of his shirt.
Exactly where the blade had struck in the memory.
Tairn looked down.
His face drained of colour.
“Who did you see?”
“A woman. Silver dress. Dark hair, I think. She stabbed you.”
He closed his eyes.
“Describe her voice.”
“Cold. Educated. Rather like a disappointed headmistress.”
His grip tightened.
“Did she have a ring?”
Freya frowned.
“Yes. A silver serpent wrapped around a black stone.”
He released her as though she’d burned him.
“No.”
“Tairn?”
“No.”
For the first time, she heard real fear in his voice.
“Who was she?”
He turned towards the door.
“My wife.”
Freya stared.
“Your wife?”
“My queen. Queen Seraphine.”
“You’re married?”
“Not anymore.”
Freya blinked.
“Well, that’s reassuring. I was beginning to think this was getting complicated.”
Tairn looked back at her.
His eyes were no longer amber.
They were almost white.
“Seraphine has been dead for two hundred years.”
A terrible silence settled between them.
Then someone knocked.
Three sharp blows.
Tairn opened the door.
A guard stood outside, pale and shaking.
“Your Majesty. Forgive the interruption.”
“What is it?”
The guard swallowed.
“A woman has arrived at the northern gate.”
“Then send her away.”
“She claims to be Queen Seraphine.”
Freya’s stomach turned.
The guard looked towards her.
“And, Your Majesty…”
He hesitated.
“She says she’s come to collect her daughter.”
