The Dragon’s Daughter Sierra Dafoe All rights reserved. Copyright ©2006 Sierra Dafoe No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file copying or sharing, and email, without prior written permission from Changeling Press LLC. Willful violation of this policy will result in suspension of account privileges and will lead to prosecution. WARNING: Illegal files may contain viruses. ISBN (10) 1-59596-511-4 ISBN (13) 978-1-59596-511-0 Formats Available: HTML, Adobe PDF, MobiPocket, Microsoft Reader Publisher: Changeling Press LLC PO Box 1046 Martinsburg, WV 25402-1046 www.ChangelingPress.com Editor: Chrissie Henderson Cover Artist: Bryan Keller This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers. Prologue Twenty-odd years of wrangling, and it all came down to the same question -- who would get to marry her daughter? Sighing, Melgara sat back and rubbed at her temples. Below, at the foot of the dais, the lords Hausther and Aurorea glared up at her, while their sons glared only at each other. “Allow the challenge, your Highness!” Darmon Hausther demanded, his black eyes blazing. He was lean, hawk-faced, with a high, arrogant forehead and one striking streak of silver in his jet-black hair. Behind him, his son Darrek was coiled like a cat, seeming ready to spring into battle the instant Melgara so much as nodded. Typical. The northern Hausther clan was eternally belligerent, the first, always, to leap to arms, and the last to accept an accord. Well, Darmon Hausther would accept one today, by the Winds. Him and that darkly handsome offspring of his -- whether they liked it or not. On the other side, Thrand Aurorea stood with arms crossed over his huge barrel chest, his son Rand towering beside him like a mountain. Thick, orange-red hair cascaded over the youth’s broad shoulders -- the very sign and mark of the Aurorean clan. Where Darrek was lean and fast, Rand was built like a young bull; stolid, massive, and enduring. Looking at him, one would never suspect the lively intellect that lurked beneath that fiery head of hair. A battle between the two young scions would be more than deadly; it could well be disastrous. The four clans of her realm were held together by only two things -- the balance of power between them, and the queen’s law. Her law. Let these two hotbloods at each other’s throats, and within weeks the entire realm would be wracked by war. Gerdain in the west would side with Hausther in the north, and the southlands would ally inevitably with Thrand. At times she felt it was like trying to control the Winds themselves. And yet, if she didn’t, they would rip the very fabric of their world to shreds. The constant sparring between the two clans had been bad enough, as they’d each tried to gain an advantage in their bid for her daughter’s hand. She didn’t dare allow it to come to open warfare. Knowing this day would inevitably come, Melgara Southerlin had watched, and waited, and planned. “No.” Her tone was final. Even Thrand looked surprised. “But, your Highness…” “I said no, Thrand.” “Then choose, your Highness!” Darmon snapped. “Choose a consort for that daughter who is so precious no one may even see her!” Melgara let just the tiniest trickle of smoke escape her nostrils and Darmon Hausther stepped back quickly, knowing he had gone too far. “Or let her choose.” The words were spoken softly, and Melgara looked up. Yes, young Rand. She was not surprised, though Darrek’s head jerked in shock as if such an idea was almost unthinkable. That one, she chuckled sourly, has a lot to learn. “She shall.” Immediately, at her words, much of the tension seemed to ease from the room. Melgara held up a hand. “Be warned however. The one she does not choose shall be banished forever from the four corners of my realm.” Rand’s blue eyes went wide at this pronouncement, while Darrek’s grew darker, till they glinted like obsidian amid the sharp planes and angles of his face. Melgara noted their reactions from the corner of her eye even as she kept her attention on their fathers. “Do you want the throne so badly now, my lords?” “Rand, no.” Thrand stepped forward. “I cannot allow this.” Rand looked down at his father with a gentleness Melgara observed closely. “If you command, Lord, I will of course obey. But it would grieve me greatly to not be given my chance. And I think,” he added, almost offhandedly, “that the lady deserves more of a choice than Darrek.” At that, Thrand gave an approving bark of laughter, while both Darmon and Darrek tensed in fury. Then Thrand pulled Rand close into a hug that cracked the younger man’s spine. What passed between Darrek and his father was silent, no more than an exchange of glances. When Darmon nodded, Darrek drew himself up and met Melgara’s gaze haughtily. “Bring her forth then, and let her choose.” Insolent whelp! Melgara stared at him, raising one regal eyebrow, until finally Darrek flushed and dropped his gaze. Yet it had been the fire and ferocity of the Hausther clan which had saved them all in the Zendarian wars. And someday they might well need that ferocity again. Melgara kept her tone mild as she replied, “She’s not here.” “What?” Both the older lords started forward in consternation. Melgara glared at them. “Darmon Hausther. Thrand Aurorea. For over twenty years the two of you have been at each other’s throats. Should I have let my daughter grow up surrounded by your petty brawling? Should I have let her become jaded and cynical from being used as a pawn in your power games? Will you dare tell me that you would not have done so?” Abashed, the two older men stepped back, Thrand’s shaggy head drooping. She eyed them coldly. “One way or another, my lords, your feud ends here.” Dismissing them from her mind, she turned to their sons. “You are both resolved?” The youths nodded. “So be it.” She clapped her hands and immediately an enormous wind sprang up, howling through the confines of the long, vaulted hall. It wrapped itself around the two young men and threw open the massive doors at the end of the hall with a bang. Outside, the world seemed to tumble away from the high perch of Wind Castle, spreading out far below into a tapestry of green, gold and blue. In the distance, the peaks of lesser mountains glinted in the sunlight. Under the wind’s rough hand, Rand’s hair tangled into thick, fiery curls, while Darrek’s streamed back, long and smooth and black as pitch. They both leaned into the wind like hounds eager to the scent. Melgara raised her voice over the wind’s keening. “It will carry you to the land where Elara has been hidden all these years -- a land that, I warn you, will seem very strange to you. You are forbidden to offer each other any violence,” she continued. Both of them glowered rebelliously, and she eyed them sternly. “Do not doubt that I will know. And if you do…” She left the threat hanging. “You may, however, help each other if you choose.” From the rolling of their eyes, it was clear the two lordlings found that possibility unlikely. Privately, Melgara sighed. “You shall each have an equal chance to woo and win my daughter. But first --” She smiled evilly, allowing herself to enjoy this moment. How she had waited and planned for this day! “First, you will have to find her.” She clapped her hands again, and the wind redoubled, whipping through the vast audience hall with a hungry ferocity. Under its buffeting, the two young lords seemed to shred, their outlines blurring, stretching, spreading until, with a last muscular shudder, two dragons, one deep-chested and red as flame, the other lean, black, and wickedly taloned, unfurled their wings and sprang from the castle into the rushing wind. Oh, my daughter, Melgara prayed as they rose, flitting through the cool, clean air, all my hopes rest on you. May you find joy enough now to make up for all your years of exile. The hall seemed preternaturally quiet after the fury of the wind. Below her, Darmon Hausther shifted, already impatient. “What now, your Highness?” “Now?” She settled back, enjoying his discomfiture, and smiled coldly. “Now, my Lord Hausther, we wait.” Chapter One Lara reached for her pencils, picked up a blue one, then, shaking her head, selected a bright orange-red. On the large sketch pad in front of her, a dragon was slowly taking shape. Outside the wind gusted, bringing with it the scent of salt and the echoing cries of seagulls. Lara paused a moment to listen, smiling. The wind was why she’d moved out here to this tiny cottage on the edge of the Cape. Okay, shack, really, if she were honest -- even off-season rents on Cape Cod were obscenely steep. There was room enough for her bed (a queen-sized, and her sole self- indulgence), although it had to serve both as a chair for her drafting table and a couch when she wanted to watch TV. There were shelves for her meager wardrobe and a tiny kitchenette. She even had something resembling privacy in the form of scrub pines that enclosed the shingled cottage in a u-shaped hedge. A mere formality now that...
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