Smolder (Crown of Fae #3) - Sharon Ashwood Page 0,15

next time you drown the good and great of Faery in the main course.” The general’s tone was dry. “Wanton destruction always seems wrong coming from a guest.”

“I thought that was the mark of a good party.”

“The invitation specified formal wear. That does not include the condiments.”

Morran laughed, but there was a thread of uneasiness in it. What was he doing in the Shade camp? Why did Juradoc keep him alive? Morran couldn’t piece his circumstances together. Something told him if he regained his wits, the Shades would slaughter him in a heartbeat.

That meant the reason they kept him was important. Perhaps a potential weapon.

Weapons are good.

The silence in the tent had gone on a beat too long.

“There was enough food in that hall to feed the town for a week,” Morran observed. “Eldaban must be a rich city.”

“Dorth pays us to keep trade flowing.”

“A time-honored arrangement.”

“Lords paying thugs for protection?” Juradoc asked, a sneer in his words.

“Is that why we came here?” Morran asked, sounding bored. “To collect tribute?”

“Not entirely.”

Then Morran recalled the general’s words in the banquet hall. You swore that ancient power would be ours for the taking. The memory punched like a brawler’s fist—hard and decisive. Somehow, it had stuck in his mind, unlike every other memory. Why? Why remember those words in particular?

The fire dancer.

There had been two, but only one had imprinted on Morran’s shattered mind. She—or her kind, at least—was what Dorth had promised and Juradoc had claimed. Her ability to summon the Flame had been the price of Eldaban’s safety.

And she was powerful. Though the Shades might not fully understand, the dance was a rite, a ceremony of healing. Ever since her performance, his head had been clearer.

That image—lithe limbs and fiery hair—brushed over him like something lush and ripe. She had lit his soul like a private sun, filling him with childlike wonder—though nowhere near so innocent. Her heat had reminded him that he was male and had been alone too long.

Out of her presence, he felt the creeping cold of darkness, as if the stars winked out one by one.

“I would like to see the dancer again.” Morran kept his tone casual, settling back on the cushions. He waved a languid hand to one of the slaves, signaling for wine. A green-skinned youth rose at once to obey.

“Then we shall take one with us when we leave.” Something in the general’s tone said he’d already arranged it.

Morran nodded. There was only one dancer who mattered. “Where are we bound?”

“Tymeera.” Juradoc spoke in patient tones. Given the state of Morran’s memory, he had probably answered the question at least once before.

Why Tymeera? Morran turned the name over in his mind, his breath quickening. It was a clue, a bread crumb in this hellish maze.

Another memory came, this time of smashing the banquet hall in his crude, inarticulate rage. Shame burned in his belly. Once, he’d been a fine, elegant swordsman, but none of that remained. Wanton destruction was the only weapon he had.

To do what? Stop the enemy. It was his old self who answered. A rusty voice, but recognizable.

Tension clawed through his neck and shoulders. He sensed Juradoc’s eyes on him—those eerie, violet pinpricks probing his every change of expression.

The moment broke as the slave knelt before Morran, balancing a wine-filled goblet on a serving tray. Morran slowly sat forward to accept it, his eyes meeting the earth fae’s deep brown gaze. The youth was terrified.

A memory emerged, shimmering into view for the first time in… Morran had no sense of time. All he knew was that it was brilliant and ephemeral like the lamplight caught on the surface of his wine.

Once, he’d been the sword of his people. He’d protected the vulnerable. He’d been filled with the fire of vengeance against the Shades. His knuckles grew white around the goblet’s jeweled sides as a hunger of his own unfurled in his chest.

The Prince of Tymeera was shaking off his bonds.

Leena still sat with her back against the door, her thoughts pounding like a restless surf. The square of sky outside her window had turned the pearly gray of dawn, but she had no more answers than before. All she’d achieved for a night’s misery was a numb backside.

The one concession she had made to the cool night air was wrapping herself in the shawl she used as a blanket. It was one of the very few things her mother had taken from their old home. She shrugged it closer,