Hastily he snatched his hand away. “Sorry, Melissande. Gerald, are you in here?” And then he winced and froze. “Um, Your Highness, not to complain or anything but your elbow’s in a very precarious part of my anato-”
“Monk?” said a disbelieving voice. It sounded small and frightened. “Is that you?”
Gerald? Since when was Gerald small and frightened? But before he could speak, the bird rattled her tail. “Oh, yes, fine, ask about Markham first why don’t you? When I’m the one sitting here faded to a mere shadow of my former glory after flying and hitching from here to Ottosland then convincing Markham and his idiot colleagues that your life was in danger and then risking my life again to get back to this ether-forsaken kingdom using Markham’s highly illegal and practically untested portable portal! And why is it so dark in here? Why doesn’t somebody turn on the lights?”
Oh. Right. He snapped his fingers. “ Illuminato.”
And just like that, there was light.
“Reg!” cried Gerald, and fell to his knees. “Oh my God, Reg, you’re alive!”
And then Reg was saying something, scolding again, she was always scolding. But Monk didn’t pay any attention. He could hardly make sense of the words. Because Gerald-Gerald Bloody hell. Gerald. What happened to you?
There wasn’t a mark on him. Not a scrape. Not a bruise. But his face had gone so thin and there were smeared shadows beneath his eyes and his eyes-his eyes -
Oh, Gerald. What have you seen?
His friend was clutching Reg so tightly the bird could hardly breathe. “Lional said you were dead, he said he’d killed you!” He was practically babbling. But Gerald never babbled. “He did kill you, look, there’s your body! Over there!”
Feeling sick again, Monk stared as Gerald and Reg fussed at each other over some trick with a dead chicken. He could feel his heatbeat’s dull thudding in his ears.
This is bad. This is very bad. Something very bad’s happened to Gerald.
“Mr. Markham?”
He turned at the light touch on his arm. “Your Highness?”
“What’s wrong?”
So she’d been watching him. She could feel his dismay.
I wonder if that means she’s ass over teakettle too?
It’d be nice if it did. He was feeling horribly alone.
“Nothing,” he said, because whatever Gerald had been through her brother was behind it and he wanted to spare her that pain for as long as he could. “Sorry. I just-”
And then Gerald was asking him about how they’d found him and the portable portal. He explained everything, quickly, but instead of being pleased about it Gerald suddenly looked sick. Said something about a lodestone and how he’d forgotten Lional didn’t reactivate it but before they could sort that out-and before he could stop her-the love of his life was shouting at his horribly altered best friend.
“What the hell were you thinking, Gerald? Making a dragon?”
Gerald flinched. “I’m sorry.”
But Melissande wasn’t in the mood for apologies-and it seemed that Gerald had no intention of defending himself. So he tried to stop her-and the look she gave him was like being stabbed.
Reg flapped from the cave floor to his shoulder. “Don’t,” she said softly. “With Lional off his rocker and the Butterfly Prince disqualified on grounds of mental health, as in not having any, she’s New Ottosland’s ruler now. She’s got a right to ask.”
Maybe she did, but he didn’t have to like it. Gerald’s face was scaring him.
“So what did Lional promise you in return for his dragon?” Her Royal Highness demanded, magnificent in her anger. “Gold? Jewels? Land? What did he promise you?”
Silence. And then Gerald lifted his sad, shadowed eyes. “You don’t want to know what he promised me, Melissande.”
Oh God. Oh God. Here it comes. This is the bad part. This is the part I don’t want to know.
Except he couldn’t turn away from it. Gerald was his best friend. Gerald was here because he’d shown him that advertisement. Whatever had happened, he was partly to blame. So he couldn’t stay silent. He had to speak up.
“Lional tortured you, Gerald. Didn’t he?”
On his shoulder, Reg gasped.
And Melissande, oh Melissande, she didn’t want to hear it either. She didn’t want to be the sister of a man who could do something like that. So she tried to blame Gerald and even though it had been love at first sight he was angry with her, so angry, because Gerald didn’t lie. Was she blind, not to see it? Couldn’t she see he’d been hurt? But when he tried to defend his best friend she turned on him. It was all a mess, such a terrible mess, and he had no idea how to clean any of it up.
And then he heard-really heard-what Gerald was saying. Like a coward, he wanted to run.
No. No. I don’t want to hear this.
But how could he not hear it, after Gerald had lived it?
Eventually the sickening tale of cruelty and suffering came to an end. Melissande, the love of his life, stood like a weeping marble statue and on his shoulder Reg felt turned to stone.
He looked at Gerald, and Gerald looked back. The cost of that confession was etched in his face. The price of his endurance-the finding of his limit-was etched deeper still. “There’s something else,” Gerald said tiredly. “Lional’s controlling the dragon using the Tantigliani sympathetico.”
Melissande smeared a dirty sleeve across her wet face. “What does that mean?”
So Gerald explained. Melissande swayed, close to folding to the cave’s dirt floor. But she didn’t, because she was Melissande. He wanted to hold her-and kept his hands to himself. She’d never forgive him if he made her look weak.
Feeling bludgeoned, he shook his head. “Bloody hell, Gerald. Every wizard who’s ever tried that incant has gone mad. Even Tantigliani in the end. You say Lional’s lost himself inside the dragon’s mind? Does that mean…”
Gerald was like a man cut out of paper. Like a man mere heartbeats from crumbling to ash. “Yes.” He glanced at Melissande. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. I’m pretty sure it’s too late for Lional.”
Stirring at last, Reg rattled her tail feathers. “Then the only way to stop the dragon is by capturing the king.”
Monk touched a fingertip to her wing. “He’s as good as half a dragon himself now.”
“Fine,” she said, shrugging. “Then we don’t capture him. We kill him.”
And because there hadn’t been enough raw emotion already, her blunt assessment sparked another passionate row. Melissande wept again and this time he did touch her. He put his arms around her-and she didn’t push him away.
Reg flapped over to Gerald, who cradled her against his chest. “Honestly, Reg. Have you heard of being tactful?”
“If being tactful will kill that torturing bastard, Gerald, I’ll tact up a storm,” she said grimly. “You see if I don’t.”
Gerald dropped a kiss to the top of her head, then looked up. “She is right, Monk. Lional and his dragon have to be stopped.”
Well, yes, obviously, but “I know you want to be the one to stop them, Gerald,” said Melissande. Stepping away, she smoothed her hands down the front of her shirt, putting her armor back in place. “But Lional broke you once. He could break you again.”
Gerald’s flinch was like a sword running through his own body. “ Melissande.”
She turned on him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Markham, but I can’t afford kindness just now. My kingdom’s at stake. Or are you going to tell me you think he’s up to it?”
Damn. Damn. She had to ask him that, didn’t she? With Gerald standing there, after everything he’d just said… after everything he’d endured. Days and days of unspeakable torment. Gerald, the Third Grade wizard who could turn lizards into dragons. Who’d tried and tried not to…
