CHAPTER 11

Lucille wasn’t in a position to see what happened between Rabbit and Krys. I desperately wanted some form of muscular control so I could pace, or at least fidget a little while I waited for the outcome of the discussion between the two girls. Lucille continued ignoring them, focusing on Robin, our half-elven prisoner. That offered a small bit of distraction, so I settled in—mentally speaking—and returned my attention to that conversation.

“May I ask you something, Princess Frank?”

“What?”

“Why are you traveling to Fell Green? If you truly wish to halt the oncoming storm, would it not make more sense to accede to my uncle’s demands? He would be bound by his words—”

Lucille snorted.

“And now you find me amusing?”

“Only a fool would place their faith in an elven promise.”

“Oh? You know that he does not lie.”

“Truth is not the same thing as honesty,” Lucille said.

“Wise words,” Robin said. “But wisdom is not the same thing as intelligence.”

“Now let me ask you something.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“Tell me why. Why would Timoras go to war over something the prince himself instigated?”

Robin chuckled. “You have little dealing with elves, I presume.”

“As little as possible.”

“They take hospitality very seriously. They grant some leeway to the mortal realms, being uncivilized as they are—”

“Hey—”

“But murdering a guest is beyond the pale, even for a liberal interpretation of your obligations.”

“It wasn’t murder. He was—”

“Is the prince dead?”

“Yes.”

“At someone’s hand?”

“That isn’t—”

“In your house?”

“He attacked m—the prince.” Robin arched an eyebrow, noticing the shift in the middle of Lucille’s statement. “And why,” she continued, “declare war on everyone?”

“Who was present?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“They share culpability.”

“They . . .” She shook her head slowly. “I see.”

If the elf-king thought all the attendees shared responsibility, he probably did want to go to war with literally everyone. At least the majority of this continent. The fact that Robin talked about “an immortal army that hasn’t tasted blood in millennia” did not make me feel any better about the situation.

“What’s the point of this then?” Lucille held up the pendant. “If he wants war, why bother to give us an ultimatum at all?”

Robin chuckled. “Who said anything about what my dear uncle wants?”

“Pardon?”

“If King Timoras does not extract a full measure of compensation for the death of his only heir, he is likely to join him.” At this point I couldn’t count that outcome as a bad thing. “The intrigue of the Winter and Summer Courts . . . it makes mortal battles of succession look like toddlers squabbling over a plate of sweets.” Actually I had always thought it was the nature of aristocracy that gave that appearance. “His position is incalculably weakened by the loss of the prince.”

“Really?”

“A potential survivor with the means and the patience to plot a revenge has long been a deterrent to any direct act against the king. And relations between the courts are ever strained at best.”

Lucille spoke my thought as I was thinking it. “If that’s the case, why wouldn’t a plotter kill the prince first? In fact, maybe that is what this is. Maybe he was under some sort of geas?”

Robin chuckled again, and I began to realize that I really didn’t like him.

“What?” Lucille asked.

“Poor planning indeed.”

“Why?”

“What fate do you think awaits the king’s rivals?”

“I suppose he won’t kill them all like a sensible tyrant.”

“Direct, but prone to ally his enemies together. Not to mention many serve the queen, who might object. No, I suspect that his chief rivals will have the honor of leading the troops in their first battle in a thousand years.”

“What do you—”

It may have felt as if my own mouth spoke the words, but I missed what Lucille said because my whole mind was suddenly hammered with the sound of a young man’s voice saying, BLECH!

In the real world I heard coughing from somewhere outside Lucille’s field of vision, followed by Krys’s voice, “Why? Why would you have me drink—” The words broke off with more spitting and coughing.

Horrid . . . Ick . . . To the Seven Hells with her practical jokes!

Krys? I thought at the vaguely familiar voice.

The coughing, spitting, and cursing halted abruptly.

In my head I heard the new voice say tentatively, Frank?

I gave a mental cheer.

Rabbit heard you . . .

Yes! Yes! You can hear me! I mentally screamed at the heavens. I’m here, Krys! I’m still here!

I hear you all right. I heard a mental shush.

Sorry, I thought quietly. I’m just excited.

I’m sure, Krys thought. But, Frank?

What?

Why do you have to taste so nasty?

•   •   •

I didn’t realize exactly how frayed my sanity had been until I was able to communicate. It did untold good for my state of mind, despite still being trapped as a passenger in Lucille’s body. When Rabbit had questioned my existence, I had come pretty close to doubting it myself. But now that I could communicate with Krys, I had external confirmation that I wasn’t a figment of anyone’s imagination.

What laid all the doubts to rest was telling Krys Rabbit’s given name. It was something no one else was in a position to know. The joyous yelp Rabbit gave at the news was enough to interrupt Lucille’s conversation with our guest to glance over at the two girls hugging and crying just at the edge of the light from the campfire.

“What’s going on over there?” Lucille asked them.

Krys and Rabbit disentangled themselves and faced us as if they’d been caught raiding the royal pantry. “Nothing, Your Highness,” Krys said, with a subtle glance at Robin the Highwayman.

I felt Lucille arch an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Please forgive the interruption,” Krys said, bowing slightly.

“Uh-huh.” Lucille turned back to face Robin.

“They make a handsome couple,” Robin volunteered.

“Uh, sure. Let’s get back to the elf-king’s court . . .”

I let Lucille continue the conversation without me while I consulted with my personal retainers. I found Robin’s assumption about Krys and Rabbit amusing, not because of Krys’s rather impressive attempt at crafting a male persona—I’d be the last one to look askance at anyone’s gender issues—but because I knew the two girls could annoy each other as much as any two blood siblings I’d ever seen.

What now? Krys’s voice spoke in my head.

First things first, I thought back. How many of those herb packets does Rabbit still have with her?

Krys whispered at Rabbit since the other girl’s presence in my mind had faded. I guessed that our communications had lasted maybe half an hour. Not very long in the scheme of things.

Three more packets.

I thought something unkind. All right. One has to be for Lucille—hopefully that will last longer since I’m in her head. You’re going to have to talk to her after she’s done with tall, dark, and elvish here.

Sure. We should get some more of this stuff.

Do either of you know what’s in it?

Even though she wasn’t in Lucille’s field of vision, I could sense her shrug. No clue.

And Brock’s in no shape for sharing recipes, even if he was here.

It was one more thing we were going to have to track down in Fell Green.

•   •   •

“You’re kidding,” Lucille said when they finally freed her from her elf interrogation. Krys walked her away from the campfire while Rabbit watched the prisoner.

“No,” Krys told her, her voice barely above a whisper. “Rabbit did hear Frank. This stuff Brock gave her for pain allowed us to talk.”

“Uh-huh,” Lucille said slowly.

“He said he’s still in your head.” Krys tapped a finger on her own forehead for emphasis.

Lucille shuddered, and I felt a little insulted by her reaction.

“Rabbit was trying to tell us earlier,” Krys said.

Lucille closed her eyes and shook her head. “How is that possible?”

“I guess when you left the dragon, he didn’t have anywhere else to go?”

“I guess not.” She swallowed and opened her eyes. “Tea, you said?”

Krys nodded.

“I suppose I need to have some then.” I heard the doubt in her voice. If Krys noticed it, she gave no sign.

Krys already had a tin cup of the concoction prepared and handed it to Lucille. Lucille glanced back at the campfire, where our prisoner was busy chatting up Rabbit. They were out of earshot, so we didn’t hear exactly what the elf was saying. However, the occasional syllable made its way to us, ringing a little higher than I expected.

He’s singing?

I was occupied with the incongruity of it, so I was caught off guard by one of the foulest-tasting liquids to ever pass my lips, in my mouth or anyone else’s. The sensation was nearly indescribable, combining the worst elements of pond scum, swamp gas, and the kind of fungus that grew on dead things. Fermented slime mold came to mind.

Then I smelled it.

Once it was slithering down our throat, the odor of the stuff struck us from the inside. Once that hit, I realized that I had unfairly disparaged slime molds and fungus. The smell clawed its way through our sinuses like a rabid goblin tearing its way through a burlap sack filled with carrion and feces.

The only reason Lucille wasn’t choking against the assault on our senses was the anesthetic properties of the unwholesome concoction. The brew had completely paralyzed our gag reflex. Our mouth and throat had gone largely numb, but that did little to reduce the awful tastes and smells tearing through our skull.

Oh gods!

Holy Crap!

Frank?

Her mental voice tore through my thoughts like dragon fire through a scribe convention. Ahhhh. Too loud.

Frank? Her stentorian internal monologue lowered from the apocalyptic to the merely catastrophic.

Yes. I’m here. I gave a mental sigh.

You sound different. A puzzled note leaked into the demonic chorus of her thoughts.

I wasn’t born with a princess’s contralto, you know.

It’s strange . . .

Stranger than your mental voice? You couldn’t scream “dragon” louder if you spit brimstone at me.

I am a dragon!

The thought came reflexively quick at me and I doubted she knew what she said/thought until after we had both heard it.

I . . . I . . . Frank?

I’m sorry. It makes perfect sense. I didn’t want to upset you.

I suddenly found out what uncontrolled draconic laughter sounded like inside the dragon’s head. I had a brief worry about Lucille’s sanity.

Lucille?

Upset me? You’re worried that you upset me?

Well. . .

You’re alive! she screamed in my mental ears. You’re alive! You’re alive!

My entire consciousness vibrated with the words, my soul ringing like church bells on a high holy day. I was stunned, and from more than the sound. My natural attitude, especially as things go wrong around me, tended to float somewhere between a critical remorse for my own bad decisions and a reflexive self-pity over those things for which I couldn’t claim responsibility. I knew that it was a bad habit of mine, and I usually made sure to include it on the list of things I berated myself for.

Having my skull—our skull—shaking from a dragon leaping and shouting for joy at the mere fact of my existence, it didn’t quite track with the kind of depressive nihilism I was comfortable with. It made me consider that, just maybe, something good had happened to me.

Yes, I’m alive. I said to myself as much as Lucille.

Good thing, because my mental companion still danced around me singing, You’re alive!

Lucille . . .

You’re alive!

We’ve established that . . .

You’re alive!

Lucille! I snapped.

She finally stopped. After half a beat she said Yay, very quietly.

I couldn’t keep from a mental chuckle.

I thought you were gone, really gone.

I gathered that. But I’ve been here since that debacle at the banquet.

Here?

I’m still in your head—my head—

Our head?

I don’t think there was anywhere for me to go when you left the dragon.

I felt our head nod, and she froze a moment, hand halfway to her chin. And I was planning to use the Tear—

Yeah, I’m pretty sure that would be a bad idea.

“Damn it!” she said aloud and in my mind at the same time. Next to us, Krys winced as if she heard the dragon’s voice speaking through Lucille.

I’m sorry; it made sense if you didn’t know—

That was my backup plan. It was all I had in reserve. Damn!

It was the only way we knew to return her to the dragon. The nature of the artifact was to swap the wearer’s identity to the nearest compatible body—for definitions of “compatible” forged within Nâtlac’s evil jewel. However, we knew from experience that if Lucille wore it, she would end up in the dragon’s skull. It made sense. If I had been in the dragon, however demented, it would return me to the princess’s body. If it wasn’t me, it would be easier to detain a hostile princess than a hostile dragon.

But, since I was in Lucille’s skull, not the dragon’s, there was no telling how the Tear of Nâtlac might react.

I understood how that must feel, having that one option close for her. I felt more than heard the tumble of random confused thoughts that followed her outburst, rage and guilt the primary emotions.

Oh Frank, I don’t mean . . . I’m so happy you’re . . . but . . .

You don’t have to explain.

We need to get you a body.

Both of us.

And the elves . . .

We need to deal with the elves, I agreed.

•   •   •

We talked, and I think the conversation—just being able to communicate—was as much a relief for her as it was for me. I also discovered something else.

I realized, as she sought some measure of approval from me, that she was scared, way more scared than I had given her credit for. I had been riding along and watching her as she took command of a horrible situation, as she faced the elf-king one-on-one as if he was just another Baron Weslyess . . .

And the fear she felt wasn’t for her life and limb. Her life as a dragon among humans seemed to have dulled her sense of that to—it seemed to me—an unhealthy degree. Her fear was that she would make a mistake and more people would get hurt.

A year ago, had you suggested to me that an aristocrat, someone of allegedly noble blood, might care about something other than their own skin and their own grasp on power, I would have patted you on the head, made some condescending comment about your optimistic and trusting nature, and would have immediately begun planning how to use such an absurd belief to separate you from your purse, since you were obviously too weak-minded to be trusted with any gold.

A year of knowing Lucille—and to an extent I’m still not willing to admit, her father—had slowly forced me to amend my belief that all aristocracy was inherently populated by parasitic narcissists who thought way too highly of themselves.

Not all aristocrats. Just almost all.

That was the kind of epiphany that had allowed me to remain the princess of Lendowyn this long without hating myself.

Or Lucille.

I knew that her near-misstep with the Tear of Nâtlac had rattled her, but I had no idea how much she had been second-guessing herself until she started asking my opinion on what was happening. I think she asked me about every decision she had made since I had lost consciousness at the banquet.

Especially about impersonating me.

I didn’t know what to do.

No, you’re right. You don’t want your father having the dragon killed out of hand. Even if it’s not me in there, it’s your body—

It was another mistake. Like the Tear.

Lucille?

Look at the damage it’s already done. The dragon’s alive, attacking villages now—

You made a judgment call.

The wrong one.

Maybe. But you weren’t in any position to attack the dragon anyway. Neither was your father.

Hmm.

What was in your power to do?

This is all just so frustrating.

Believe me, I know.

I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—

I know what you meant.

Trying to figure out what to do . . . I should have just turned myself over to him. “Equivalent exchange” and all . . .

Three problems with that—

You’re along for the ride, too. And I wouldn’t turn Sir Forsythe over to him, even if he’d stayed around. And . . . what?

He actually specified the dragon.

Because he thinks the dragon is still royal.

Does he?

What do you mean?

His exact words, “You have a day to give me the dragon and whomever bears responsibility for my son’s murder.”

Slip of the tongue?

How many elven agreements have you heard of where they were fuzzy and imprecise about language? That’s how they manage to screw people over so effectively. They rely on their victims to make assumptions and misunderstand the wording. Is Timoras going to make that kind of mistake unintentionally?

And he said, “whomever bears responsibility for my son’s murder . . .”

Not, “the person who killed him.”

He thinks his son was set up?

Suspects it, at least. If your elvish boyfriend back there’s right, Timoras has to threaten war because he can’t point at who did it—

My elvish what?

—and he has to retaliate somehow or his rivals will move against him, no matter who was behind the original attack.

What did you mean by that?

You’re awfully interested in Robin Half-Elf.

Are you kidding?

I honestly thought I had been. But I realized that something about our mental connection made it harder to mask certain things. I realized that my tone had cut a bit deeper than good-natured teasing warranted.

I’m sorry, forget it.

You think I was . . . Are you insane? Some bastard highwayman?

Not that far from what I was when we first met. I hadn’t intended to think that. I really didn’t want to think that at her, but it leaked out before I could stop it.

I don’t believe you. All that’s happening, and you’re jealous?

It’s not the right time for this—

You’re the one who brought it up.

I wasn’t thinking.

Isn’t that all we’re doing here?

You know what I mean.

No, Frank, I don’t.

I froze, guarding my tumbling thoughts from more embarrassing leakage. What did I mean? Why did I have to throw in that dig at Robin? It had slipped out before I even thought about it, so to speak. I know that I didn’t trust him. He seemed a little too convenient. And a little too handsome . . .

What in Nâtlac’s Hell?

I was jealous.

I steeled myself and thought at Lucille, I’m sorry. Sometimes I just get stupid.

She didn’t respond, and I could almost sense her fuming.

I can’t help but envy the man who monopolized your attention like that. It doesn’t make a lot of sense, especially given the nature of our relationship . . .

I trailed off because I felt as if I was venturing into dangerous territory again.

You see, I never told you how I’ve regretted—the one time that we were both human again—I didn’t . . .

She should have interrupted me again.

Lucille? I’m floundering here.

Nothing.

Lucille? Are you there? Did the tea wear off?

Still nothing.

“Lucille?”

Krys spun and turned to face us in response to my last call. I met her gaze before I fully understood what had happened.

“Your Highness?” she asked in a concerned tone.

“I think we have another problem,” I whispered with Lucille’s mouth.