EXCERPT

The wild spinning into the air, the feeling of his ribs almost being crushed, and the searing pain in the skull didn’t bother Nathair much. His head throbbed, and his stomach rolled with nausea, but that was normal when he used a traveling charm.

What bothered him during a trip with a traveling charm was the fear of being beheaded or losing a limb as it’d happened to a junior knight a few weeks ago. The poor lad had lost his foot and screamed so loud Nathair thought a dragon was attacking the Swan’s headquarters.

Yes, a healer had reattached the missing limb, and now the lad walked with only a minor limp, yet, experiencing that type of pain wasn’t something Nathair looked forward to.

He landed on the grass in the middle of the Order of the Swan’s headquarters in New Camelot and staggered onto his feet. The blue smoke produced by the charm twirled around him and dissolved in the morning air. He bent forward and sucked in a deep breath, the faint smell of sulfur, dragonwort, and something else spicy filling his nostrils. He touched his face to confirm his nose and ears were still there. His long curled, chestnut hair fell over his cheeks, and he pulled it back. Good. So even his hair seemed all right. He hadn’t turned bald. Legs? Two. Eyes? Two as well. Fingers? Ten.

Nathair straightened his black Swan uniform and brushed off the dust it’d gathered during his trip from Astolat. Next time, he’d take a dragon flight. It was slower but safer. More or less.

“Finally.” Tristan strode over to him, cutting through the courtyard packed with horses. His neat uniform stretched over broad shoulders, making his golden hair appear shinier. “You should’ve come back yesterday. What happened? Problems with the mission?”

“No.” Nathair smiled. Bryhannon’s flowery scent still lingered on his clothes. “I easily found the Swan’s headquarters in Astolat and delivered the documents, but…” He checked the courtyard. A group of recruits in green uniforms sparred against a clockwork knight—an Ametor. The clash of swords covered their grunts. Senior knights practiced hand-to-hand combat, and a few healers milled around, their noses stuck inside the pages of fat books. No one was close enough to hear him. “Bryhannon came with me and—”

“Bryhannon? You took her with you during a mission?” Tristan’s sapphire eyes widened.

“Shush!” Nathair pressed his lips together and glanced around. “She wanted to buy a few things in Astolat, and I asked her to come. It’s not like I took her into a Saxon war zone. Astolat is relatively safe.” It wasn’t like Londinium, where Saxon dragons had thrown fireballs on the city and almost burned everything to the ground.

Tristan put a hand on the hilt of Gutrender. “She’s still a princess even though her father disowned her and an unchaperoned lady. People will talk. Her reputation will be ruined.”

“No one knows she was with me. She told General Baldwin she was going to visit her sister in Summerland, and since when you’re so worried about propriety?”

Tristan’s cheeks flushed. “I suppose that if the situation were reversed and I’d taken your sister in Astolat with me—”

“You wouldn’t breathe right now,” he gritted out.

Tristan spread his arms. “See what I mean?”

Nathair’s face warmed, and he loosened the collar of his jacket. Tristan had a point, but Nathair had only wanted to spend some time alone with his new girlfriend without General Baldwin’s constant vigilance or a maid listening to everything he said to Bryhannon. Was it that bad?

“Bryhannon insisted, and nothing happened. We slept into two different bedrooms.” Unfortunately.

“That’s something.”

Nathair arched a brow. “You aren’t planning on taking my sister somewhere, are you?”

Tristan’s stare dropped to the ground. “No. I’ve invited her to Beltane ball in my house, and she said yes.” His chest swelled then deflated. “But she didn’t sound happy.”

Nathair frowned. With her damaged leg, Nineveh probably didn’t feel confident enough to go to a ball, but her mechanical boot allowed her to jump and run freely. So why wasn’t she happy to attend a ball?

Tristan was right about Bryhannon though. Her reputation was at stake, and he had to behave like a proper gentleman. He tapped the small velvet box in his pocket–the proof that he was a gentleman, and that he was serious about Bryhannon. The small case represented the first big step toward a life together.

Slowly, as if he were handling an asp, he fished out the box and showed it to Tristan. “I care about her reputation.”

Tristan’s mouth hung low. “You’re going to propose to her?”

Nathair nodded, not trusting his voice.

“Are you sure it’s the right thing to do?” Tristan peered at him.

“It’s what I want and what she needs. Her father disowned her. She’s been forced to live in General Baldwin’s house. She doesn’t have a family anymore. Besides, I love her, and I’m eighteen now. Why shouldn’t I marry her?”

“I simply think it’s a bit too early.”

Nathair stiffened, closing his hand around the box. “Just because you prefer changing girlfriends every other day, it doesn’t give you the right to judge me.”

Tristan exhaled through clenched teeth and glowered. “Those days are in the past, you know this, or I wouldn’t be courting Nineveh.”

Nathair raked a hand through his hair, a pang of guilt striking him. Tristan had proved to have serious intentions about Nineveh. “Sorry,” he said, stuffing the box back in his pocket.

“Well, congratulations then.” Tristan clasped his forearm like the Swan warriors used to greet each other.

A corner of his mouth quirked up. “I have a job now. My mother’s debt has been paid. I can take care of Bryhannon.” I want to. Then, they could be alone as much as they wanted.

Tristan swatted his arm, startling him. “Ewhen wants to talk to you.” He headed toward the wooden barracks that surrounded the courtyard. “Actually, he was waiting for you early this morning for the camouflage training session.”

Nathair dodged a stray arrow and scowled at the recruit who shot it. The boy flustered and bowed his head. “I thought the camouflage training session was optional.” Besides, spending hours dressed like a bush and imitating birds’ songs grated on his nerves.

“We’re senior knights now. We aren’t at the academy anymore. Optional means compulsory.”

They entered the main building and climbed the wooden stairs to Captain Ewhen’s office. The familiar smell of worn leather and sword polish wafted around. Knights’ boots stomped on the polished floor as a group of Swans marched along the corridor. Some had blood-stained bandages around their heads and arms, the result of a recent Saxon intrusion into Briton territory.

Nathair stopped in front of Ewhen’s office. The door stood ajar, and Ewhen’s booming voice drifted out.

“We’ll find him, whoever he is.” He slammed a fist on the desk, causing it to shake. The content of an ink bottle quivered. “If I have to interrogate every single knight in the entire Briton Empire to find him, I will.”

Nathair winced. Ewhen wasn’t nicknamed the Dragonhearted for being sweet. He peeked inside. A see-through face floated in the middle of the desk right over the silver bar of an orator—the device for long distance communications.

“What’s this all about?” he whispered.

Tristan shrugged. “A dispatch arrived yesterday from the war zone in the south. Something happened, and since the Saxons invaded the land of the Franks, Ewhen didn’t have a moment of rest.”

Sir Bohemond paced in front of the desk, his large frame obscuring the view at every passage.

The ghostly head of the man nodded. “The situation is out of control, Sir Ewhen. Every garrison in Londinium has been thoroughly searched.”

“Search again until you find him.”

The head bowed. “Sir, yes sir.”

“Dismissed.” Ewhen punched a button, and the spectral image disappeared. He shot a glare at the door, features tensing. “Come in.”

Sir Bohemond opened the door fully and beckoned Nathair and Tristan inside. The long scar, crisscrossing his face twitched when his jaw muscle rippled. “Welcome back, Nathair.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Tristan closed the door behind them. Nathair stepped over a pair of muddy boots and stood in front of Ewhen’s wooden desk. It was so large it took up and entire corner, almost as big as his bed.

Ewhen pushed the orator aside. With its long, tubular shape, rounded ends, and the holes on its top, it resembled a flute. He ran a hand over his face, and his auburn hair tumbled forward covering his tense shoulders. “Nathair, I didn’t see you this morning at the camouflage training session.”

Oops. “Uh, thank you, Captain.”

Bohemond chuckled, and Tristan’s mouth twitched up.

Ewhen arched a red eyebrow, but the hard lines on his face softened. “Very funny. Did you have problems in Astolat?”

“Not at all.” Nathair swallowed the lump in his throat. Now his idea of spending more time with Bryhannon didn’t sound so reasonable. “I was delayed.” By the most beautiful and smartest girl I’ve ever met. A smile threatened to raise his lips when he remembered a particularly happy hour spent with Bryhannon by the empty shore of the Lynn River in the moonlight. So he cleared his throat.

Ewhen waved a hand. “Are you ready to leave again? Both of you?”

He stood at attention. “Of course, sir.”

Tristan nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Ewhen opened a cabinet behind him, pulled out a stack of parchments, and skimmed them. “We have a mole in our ranks, maybe more than one. Probably in Londinium.”

Nathair’s mouth dropped open. Tristan straightened next to him.

“Someone who knows everything we do and is reporting the intelligence to the Saxons.” Tension rippled Ewhen’s shoulders. “We don’t know who the traitor is, in fact we don’t have a clue how he or she manages to deliver the information so quickly despite the fact that every orator in Londinium is monitored.”

“We’ve checked the garrisons in Londinium,” Bohemond said, “more than once, but the leak of information still flows.”

Swyve. Nathair clasped his fist around the hilt of Durlind. The Swans had found out how to interpret the Saxons’ secret messages sent through the riddle machine, and then they’d been betrayed by a knight in their own ranks. “What are your orders, sir?”

Ewhen pinched the bridge of his nose. “Our operation to destroy the Saxon harbor in Normanz in the Frankish land has been postponed for now. At least until we find the mole, although we don’t have much time. We must get to Nazzar port before the Saxons launch their attack. Thank goodness, so far, the Saxons don’t know about our plan.”

“What about the Rache?” Tristan asked. “With the Rache, we can decode Saxon messages. They might mention the spy’s name.”

Ewhen worked his jaw. He clenched his fists so hard his knuckles turned white. “The Rache has been stolen.”

“What?” Nathair and Tristan said together.

Bohemond grimaced, and the scar contracted, wrinkling the skin on his face. “We suspect the mole is behind that as well.”

Swyve. Nathair gripped the edge of the table. Everything they’d done to find the Rache had been useless.

Ewhen spread the documents on his desk and picked up a map of the area north of New Camelot. “I need you to ride north and meet the Snakes here at Eagle Pass, or as the Snakes call it, Kiverjon.” He tapped a finger on the Wildland, a hilly area covered by a dense forest.

Nathair’s heart somersaulted. The Snakes. Their blood ran in his veins. He’d meet his mother’s tribe. He didn’t know anything about the Snakes aside from the fact that with his dark skin, golden eyes, and curly chestnut hair, he resembled them. Were the rumors true? Did they eat human flesh?

The captain clasped his hands behind his back. “The Snakes will be more inclined to talk to you, given your heritage, than to another knight.”

“I don’t speak Snake language though.”

“Many of them speak Briton.” Ewhen lifted a shoulder.

“Should we consider them as hostile?” Tristan asked.

Ewhen shook his head. “This meeting was arranged weeks ago. I personally negotiated a truce with the Snakes. Besides, I’ve heard they call you the Dragon Whisperer.”

Pink blossomed on Tristan’s cheeks. “Yes, sir, since I convinced a group of red-scaly dragons to not attack a village by talking with them.”

“He uses his sweet talking to charm girls as well,” Bohemond muttered. “Probably his voice has magic in it.”

Nathair refrained from adding a comment. He hoped Nineveh wasn’t a victim of Tristan’s sweet voice. At least her reluctance to attend the ball showed she didn’t behave like Tristan’s devote puppy.

Ewhen cradled his chin, staring at Nathair. “The Snakes won’t attack a member of their own tribe.”

He wiped his clammy hands on his trousers, not sure the Snakes would be friendly with him. “Why do we need to talk to them, sir?”

“For two reasons.” Ewhen propped his fists on the desk. “They brew a potion, a secret recipe our wizards haven’t been able to reproduce. This potion is the most powerful serum of truth ever existed. A few drops of it, and the Order of the Fox’s chief himself would spill all the secrets his spies have gathered. We need that serum if we want to catch the swyving mole.”

Nathair nodded. Snakes were famous for their knowledge of plants and herbs. That was one of the few things he knew about them.

“And the second reason, sir?” Tristan said.

“We need the Snakes on our side to check these coasts.” Ewhen traced the north-western shores of Britannia. “In case of a Saxon attack from the sea. We can’t afford to have the Snakes as an enemy any longer. We must be united if we want to keep the Saxons at bay. King Edwacer is amassing an army for a final stroke. Your mission is simple. The deal is already sealed, but the Snakes asked for supplies in exchange for their cooperation. You have to escort the cart with the provisions to Eagle Pass, the border of the Snakes’ land, and ask them about the truth potion.”

Bohemond traced a long path across the mountain with a finger. “You’ll have to follow the long way because the short path is too steep, narrow, and rocky for the cart. It’ll take between a week and ten days to reach Eagle Pass.”

So between going there and back again, Nathair would stay away almost a month. A month without seeing Bryhannon, without kissing her and holding her in his arms. His chest constricted, but he jutted out his chin. If he’d left for Normanz, he would’ve stayed away longer and maybe never come back. That was a Swan’s path, the path he’d chosen to take because he believed in the Swans’ mission and in their Knights’ Code.

Ewhen clapped his shoulder. “With everything happening here, I can’t leave New Camelot, and I trust you and Tristan.”

“Thank you, sir.” Pride flared in Nathair’s chest.

“That’s my letter for Syon, the chief.” He handed a document to Nathair. “Also, you and Tristan will travel with a wizard.”

“A wizard?” Tristan scrunched his face as if smelling dragon’s dung.

Nathair flinched. Since when did the Swans need to take a wizard with them for such a small mission?