The Tales of Two Seers Read online

  “Justin,” Edgar realized out loud, curling his fingers into his palm at the name. Justin, who was everything dragons were supposed to be. “What exactly did Justin say about me?”

  Aiden seemed startled. “You don’t know?”

  Edgar made a face. “I told you, I don’t look at people I…” All this talk of romance and unusual dragons had Edgar careless. He suddenly knew precisely how terrible it felt to be vulnerable before another dragon—a strange dragon, at that.

  Justin had to know; Edgar had always skirted acknowledging that truth but he had never denied it, either. Dragons responded to need and had sensitive noses. Therefore, Justin knew about Edgar’s hopeless affections, and possibly even Edgar’s bizarre and undragonlike desires. Now, Aiden was here because Justin had told him something, and Edgar did not want to look to see what it was.

  “Edgar?” Aiden prompted, sounding worried.

  “I shouldn’t look,” Edgar answered, fretting at the cuff of his pajama sleeve.

  “Edgar.” Aiden’s voice shook the room, a display of power that seemed to take even Aiden aback. He was young to be able to do that. Edgar had certainly never been able to shake anything. He didn’t have a treasure, and no one to care for, which made him weak as far as dragons were concerned. “Justin only speaks highly of you. That’s why I’m here.”

  “You’re stronger than I first thought.” Edgar blinked several times. Aiden might be confused, but his dragon instincts were not. He acted unassuming. Perhaps he even thought he was not strong enough to have treasure yet, or that he was too young and immature.

  “So are you,” Aiden returned, surprising Edgar again. Now, Edgar could really see why this dragon was friends with Justin. This was one of Justin’s rebel-against-tradition-and-human-prejudices types. Edgar’s initial read had been correct, but he had not glimpsed the dragon Aiden could become.

  Edgar looked down at the cuff he was wrinkling. “What did he say?”

  “That listening to you was like how he imagined it felt to drink the way humans do,” Aiden supplied. “That I would either forget my problems for a while, or find the answers to them. He also said that when it came to romance, you were—”

  “Don’t tell me!” Edgar cut him off with a near-screech. He took a breath, trying to remember that he was a dragon and was supposed to have dignity.

  “He said you were not the one to go to for practical advice, but that if I wanted someone to spill my blood and read it like tea leaves, then I should speak to you.”

  Edgar found it momentarily difficult to breathe. “Do you want that?”

  “Justin’s the conqueror. Not me.” Yet Aiden was still standing before Edgar, waiting.

  “Yes, he is.” Edgar closed his eyes, but the truth was already known and known well. “Justin is powerful and will only become more so once he finds his treasure. Which he will. Despite how easily Justin awes even other dragons, he is loving. He will choose someone strong. Not wrong. Not odd. A proper dragon, or dragon’s boy, for him.” Which Edgar obviously was not. But Edgar had never been seriously considered for Justin by anyone except their parents.

  When Edgar opened his eyes, Aiden was frowning. “You’re a seer.”

  “I like stories,” Edgar corrected, as he sometimes did when he felt more foolish than wise.

  “You’re a seer,” Aiden repeated, stressing the word.

  Edgar gave his cuff one final, frustrated tug. “Did you still want a story?”

  “Edgar…” Aiden paused. “A bootlegger?” he asked instead of whatever he had been going to say.

  “You would be fantastic,” Edgar assured him, suddenly quite sure of that. “Initially in it for private or petty reasons, but you keep at it because you like the challenge and flouting authority, especially an authority that impinges on your way of life.” Edgar was spinning nonsense out of straw, but sooner or later, it would become gold. “Those are the kind of people who admire Justin, but you aren’t intimidated by him the way some others are.”

  “You’re not,” Aiden pointed out. “Are you a rumrunner with me?”

  “I grew up with him.” Edgar pooh-poohed the interruption. “And of course not. I am barely capable of lying. If I am in a 1920s fantasy, I’m a helpless, hapless, rich bachelor constantly surrounded by unwanted engagements and interfering family members, who looks for the best in people and is thought of as silly for it. I would drink your illicit whiskey, but I would be terrible in any operation to smuggle it.”

  “And where is Justin?” Aiden wondered innocently.

  Edgar opened his mouth, then shut it with a snap. “Running a crime syndicate,” he answered wildly, though then it was only too easy to imagine Justin in a pinstriped suit and spats. He sighed. “With some pretty, willowy thing on his arm.” Edgar did not want to see this. He focused on Aiden’s paths. “Working outside the law, even a nonsense law, gives you divided loyalties. So….”

  Edgar saw divided loyalties in Aiden for a reason, and since Aiden was here, talking of romance, it must have something to do with that. A love triangle, then, or a square, or a circle, or some sort of other geometrical configuration.

  It was not only a federal agent that Aiden the Bootlegger had to guard his heart against, but a church-going widow or widower as well. Perhaps one who advocated for Temperance. Aiden certainly did not make things easy for himself. How confused and hungry he must be to come to a seer he did not know, and a dragon at that.

  But only another dragon could understand how it felt to be unsure when dragons were not supposed to be. But if Aiden chose right, his hesitation now would only make him stronger later. For them. The treasures he thought he had to choose between.

  Edgar forgot his spark of irritation with Aiden as he realized how much Aiden did not believe himself capable of taking care of two or more treasures. Aiden could barely imagine himself as a simple bootlegger. That meant Edgar was going to have to lead up to anything else.

  “You poor lamb. I won’t even add romance if you don’t want me to… unless it puts itself into the timeline. I can’t help that.” But, of course, that was why Aiden was here, in addition to shutting up his parents for a while: this romantic entanglement he had yet to speak of. “Aiden,” Edgar gentled his voice even more, “they are just stories, until they aren’t. They are the possible and impossible. You don’t have to choose just one. I certainly don’t.” He patted the couch, so Aiden wouldn’t have to remain standing. “Maybe we will start with other ones, silly stories to pass the time. I can make up some fairy tales for you, the way I used to do with… others. Anything else can always wait for another day.”

  When Aiden was ready for the answer.

  If he ever would be.

  Edgar wasn’t, and understood the feeling.

  He smiled when Aiden cautiously perched at the other end of the couch without displacing the stack of manga.

  Edgar wriggled to get more comfortable and then shut his eyes again. “Now then,” he began. “A long time ago, in a land not unlike our own, perhaps there was a prince.”

  Little Prince

  “HOW IN ALL the hells did I end up here?” Prince Timothy howled at the ceiling, before lowering his head to direct his wrath at a more logical target. “With you?” he added, letting the words drip with disdain because disdain was all he had at this point. His best escape yet, a combination of stealth and cunning and outright speed, had gotten him the farthest from his uncle’s castle—and the tower Timothy called home—than he’d gotten in years. But what happened when he’d finally entered the Shastian Wildwoods to cross into Neri? He stumbled into a night sentry from the Prince of Neri’s camp who had stepped away from the main group to piss, and the sentry brought Timothy straight to the Prince. Of course.

  Prince Nathaniel of Neri watched Timothy’s rant in careful silence. It was one of his more annoying habits, although not as annoying as his way of waiting until Timothy had calmed down to offer a comment on Timothy’s latest exploit. It was not that Nathaniel’s s
ilence or his comments were wrong, even when Tim wished they were so he would have more reasons to argue; it was how composed Nathaniel managed to be. Timothy was cold and hot and hollow and full, unable to be still, and yet whenever he was in front of Nathaniel, the other prince was watchful and quiet and utterly, perfectly polite.

  Everything a prince should be. Like someone out of a story.

  Timothy glared up at Nathaniel for that offense, only to once again be irked by their height difference. The height difference didn’t mean anything in itself; Timothy was shorter than most everyone in his family and many courtiers besides. But Nathaniel of Neri was another matter… he was always another matter. He was tall and broad even among people known for their height and size. He was big, so people listened to him. As naturally as breathing people took him seriously and didn’t stare at him as if he was some sort of changeling left behind by the Sneaky Folk. When people looked at Prince Nathaniel, it was with respect, or lust, or some combination of the two.

  Timothy absolutely refused to stare at him in the same way. Timothy might be short by the standards of his family, and scratched by brambles, and wearing a stolen dress that had been used as a clever disguise, but he was still a prince of equal, if not greater, rank than Nathaniel of Neri.

  Of course, if Tim had been alone, he would have admitted to admiring Nathaniel’s height and breadth. He might have confessed to fantasies of biting the smooth brown column of Nathaniel’s throat and to dreams of pulling Nathaniel’s tunic away to mark Nathaniel’s perfect skin with his hands. Timothy had no way to know if Nathaniel’s skin was perfect, but he assumed it was. Everything about Nathaniel was perfect. His height, his looks, his manner, even the location of the kingdom he would inherit. It was the reason they were betrothed.

  That, and the curse.

  Timothy scowled harder to think of the curse and was not surprised when his displeasure got no reaction from Nathaniel other than Nathaniel’s continued attention. Just once tonight, Timothy wanted to get a reaction out of Nathaniel that wasn’t blank assessment. Anyone who hadn’t heard Nathaniel’s dry remarks aimed in Timothy’s direction would have assumed Nathaniel was an ordinary, vapid, charming prince. Sadly, he wasn’t. There was a quick mind behind his handsome face.

  At the silence, Timothy flicked his glare farther up, from Nathaniel’s shoulders to his eyes. He paused as he always did, stunned and suddenly breathless, to see those large, golden eyes fixed on him, the long, dark lashes the same shade as Nathaniel’s short black hair, the thick eyebrows, the noble nose and plush, full mouth.

  Timothy had overheard servants praising that mouth, wondering how it would feel, envying Timothy for getting to taste it for himself. Timothy had some idea of what the servants meant, although most of what they’d said had been outside his limited knowledge of the activities done in the marriage bed.

  He realized he was staring and that his face was growing hot, so he jabbed a finger in the space between them. “I’m not supposed to be here!”

  “Yet here you are.”

  Nathaniel spoke at last.

  Timothy curled his hands at his sides and considered how to throw a punch, though he doubted it would land. Prince Nathaniel had trained with his knights and wore a sword he knew how to use. Timothy, in contrast, had been locked in a tower with books for company after his uncle had deemed Timothy a danger to himself. Timothy could read and write in six languages and speak in none of them save his own. But, in that one, he could and would speak as clearly and decisively as the king he’d one day be.

  “Here I bloody well am.” Timothy crossed his arms then uncrossed them because it made his borrowed dress pull up under his chest. The dress was stretched tight across his shoulders and hung loose everywhere else. It was also the color of pale spring roses, with a blue trim that exactly matched his eyes—an accident that made it seem as if he’d chosen the dress for that reason. As if he wanted to be pretty. As if he wanted to be found, and to be here with Nathaniel, and for Nathaniel to say he was pretty.

  “Do you ever think about that?” Nathaniel crossed his arms, too. He’d taken off the leather he usually wore while riding, leaving him in a simple tunic shirt and breeches. It was just Timothy’s luck that Nathaniel had been using his family’s hunting lodge tonight. From the way Nathaniel was dressed, Timothy’s arrival had either called him from his bed or someone else’s, and the large, canopied bed behind Nathaniel appeared untouched.

  Timothy’s stomach tightened. He blamed it on the Prince and glared even harder.

  He was certain Nathaniel had already sent a note to Timothy’s uncle, the Regent, to tell him they had found the errant Crown Prince Timothy. Timothy was likely to be returned to his tower at any moment. He didn’t see what they had left to talk about or why Nathaniel would insist on being so damn reasonable. Reason was all well and good, but Timothy was incapable of it in Nathaniel of Neri’s presence, and the fact that Nathaniel never seemed to have any similar problems was vexing beyond measure.

  “Think about what?” Timothy demanded at last, grumpily, but remembering some manners.

  “Why you always end up finding me despite your best intentions?” Nathaniel stepped over to a table not far from the bed that held a bowl and a jug of water, and grabbed a scrap of linen. He poured some water on it then crossed over to Timothy and held it out.

  Taking that as a sign that he had dirt on his face, Timothy snatched the cloth from him and threw it to the floor. Nathaniel’s gaze followed it. When he raised his eyes again, there was a small, unhappy smile at his perfect mouth but he nodded as if unsurprised.

  “I didn’t find you,” Timothy hissed, even more irritable because he was acting childish and he knew it. “I found a damned sentry.”

  “Why even come through Neri on your way to freedom, or wherever it is you’re going?” Nathaniel turned away, taking a few moments to pull fur-lined boots over his bare feet as if his toes were cold. The room was rather chilly. The fire had only been lit after Timothy’s arrival.

  Timothy opened his mouth but paused before answering, unexpectedly thrown by the idea that Nathaniel of Neri had toes that grew cold the same as any other man.

  It wasn’t that Timothy didn’t think of Nathaniel as a man—obviously, he was a man, a beautiful, incredible man—it was just that… Timothy didn’t think of Nathaniel as a man. It was better that way. Now, here Nathaniel was, tired, cold, and no doubt missing the physical attentions of some libertine, or worse, some friend who often shared his bed. Some friend he called lover.

  Timothy turned sharply away from the thought. He made himself focus on the discussion again and not on Nathaniel in love with someone else. “I… this border is close to the river. I could take the river to the ocean. Then I could go anywhere, anywhere in the world.” That had been his goal ever since their betrothal had been officially confirmed.

  He had been twelve then, although the contract between the two kingdoms guaranteeing Timothy’s hand on his twentieth birthday had been arranged the week of his birth. Somewhere out there had to be a way to break the curse and Timothy intended to find it. He’d go to the ends of the earth if he had to, and he said as much.

  “That far?” Nathaniel glanced at him, then away. “With what skills were you hoping to make a living, Little Prince? I hope more than just your winsome face.”

  “Don’t call me that!” Timothy shouted, fully prepared to risk a sword for the chance to try punching his betrothed, just once.

  “The name has always angered you.” Nathaniel angled his head to the side then sighed and wiped a hand over his mouth.

  “Was it supposed to make me happy?” Timothy’s voice continued to rise. It always did in Nathaniel’s presence. Everything Timothy’s uncle tried to instill in him, diplomacy, tact, manners, always disappeared when faced with this one man.

  Timothy vividly recalled trying to scale the castle walls at twelve and getting caught in a nest of thorns. He’d been rescued by a knight and his entourage who had been
approaching the castle. Timothy had thought the knight the most handsome man he’d ever seen. The knight had wiped the scratches and blood from Timothy’s arms and face, and laughed in a gentle way that had only convinced Timothy the knight was the shining epitome of chivalry.

  Then Timothy had noticed the Neri crest of a black wolf and the emblem of the royal house on his knight’s shield and realized he was in the hands of his future captor. He’d nearly thrown himself under a horse in his efforts to escape the Prince’s care and had burned with humiliation when the Prince had saved him from that as well.

  Nathaniel had only deepened the wound by revealing he’d recognized Timothy from his family’s famous blue eyes and dubbing him, “Little Prince.” Timothy would have resented him for that alone even if he hadn’t been destined to someday take Timothy in marriage.

  “I know I’m little,” Timothy snarled at him. “I don’t need you making me into more of a joke.” He was very aware of the fact that he was saying this while wearing a stolen, ill-fitting dress.

  “I never meant it as a joke. At least, not a mean-spirited one.” Nathaniel kept himself still, the way one did around stray dogs and wild animals. “You were frightened. I was trying to calm you. Then it just… became my name for you.” He took a breath. “I will stop calling you that if it bothers you this much.”

  Timothy flicked a cautious look in Nathaniel’s direction, warmed and upset about it. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does, if it bothers you,” Nathaniel insisted, exactly like the shining prince he was.

  Timothy crossed his arms again. “It doesn’t. If what I wanted mattered, I wouldn’t be marrying you, would I?”

  Nathaniel flinched.

  He always seemed taken aback by Timothy’s blunt attitude toward their betrothal, although Timothy couldn’t understand why. Nathaniel was generally polite about it, but Timothy knew someone like Nathaniel had his choice of anyone if he wanted a lover, and he certainly could have commanded a better husband-to-be from any of the other nearby kingdoms, even if their two countries did share a border and were traditionally allied with each other.