The Dragon's Arranged Mate(22)

I held her close to me, hoping that she would stop shaking. But she did  not; if anything, her trembling grew stronger. And her chill wasn't  imaginary, either; her skin was cold as ice. I placed a hand on her  forehead, expecting to find her burning with fever, but I found just the  opposite.

I held her in my arms and looked over at my mother, who stood by the  side of the bed. The confidence she'd gained when in attendance at the  council meeting the day before had drained away, to be replaced with  tense anxiety.

"Has anyone been sent for?" I asked, fighting to keep the panic out of my voice.

"Yes, your highness. The Druid priests are on their way. They'll be able  to help her," one of Anabelle's ladies told me. I knew not which one;  all I could do was look down into the eyes of my wife. My mate. If I  could have breathed fire into her lungs to warm her, I would have. I  would have done anything to end the suffering she was going through.

Her eyes looked up into mine, and she tried to smile. But her teeth were chattering so, it looked more like a grimace.

"Don't fear, my love," I whispered. "All will be well. You will feel better soon, I promise."



We waited outside the chamber door for the priests to make their  examination. I paced, my fists clenched. Twice, Morgan tried to place a  calming hand upon my shoulder, but I shook him off. The fury grew within  me the longer I waited.

"Why haven't they come out yet?" I asked, speaking to no one in particular. "What is taking so long?"         

     



 

I was in agony. The memory of the way she shook in my arms, like a block  of ice come to life, was burned into my brain. The look in her eyes as  she stared up at me. She had tried to brave, as she always had. But her  smile looked like a twisted, painful grimace. I could hear the  chattering of her teeth, her stuttering attempts at speech. My chest was  tight; it felt as though a fist was squeezing my heart.

After what felt like a hundred years, the door opened. I flew to it,  coming nose-to-nose with one of the priests who had been examining  Anabelle. "What is it? How is she? Can you help her?" I tried to see  around the man before me, but he blocked the doorway.

"My King," he said, his voice tinged with sorrow. "She is alive. You may come in to see her now."

Through my head raced the concern over the sadness in his voice. If she  was alive, why was he sorrowful? I pushed past him and rushed to her  side.

Then I saw.

She was frozen … as if dead.

Rhiannon cried out, and wept in Morgan's arms. Anabelle's eyes were  closed, her beautiful body no longer trembling with chills. She lay on  her back in the center of the bed, arms at her sides, her skin as pale  as the moonlight under which we had taken pleasure in each other only  the night before. I touched her face, and was alarmed at how very cold  she was.

"You say she is alive?" I asked, my voice breaking.

"She is, your highness. Her heart still beats, her blood still flows. She breathes."

I leaned in, close to her face. She enough, I felt the air coming from  her nostrils. I placed an ear against her cold breast, and could hear  her heart beating.

I stood up. "I don't understand this. How could this have happened?"

The priest still standing by Anabelle's side took the liberty of opening  the top of her dressing gown slightly. And there, between her breasts,  rose a blistered red welt. A welt in the shape of a heart.

My hand flew to the spot over my own heart, where the stone hung still.  It had been pressed into her chest. I remembered her running her hand  over the red spot left behind, which we had both assumed to be the  result of the pressure between our two bodies. But this looked more like  a burn of some sort.

"You mean … the Heart? The Heart did this?"

"Did it touch her skin?"

I nodded. "I was wearing it … " I said, and trailed off. The priest looked distinctly uncomfortable, but nodded his understanding.

"May I see it, your highness?" he asked. I removed it from around my  neck and handed it to him. He took it to the other side of the room, to  hold it up in the light coming through the doors. He and the two other  priests conferred, quietly. I heard Rhiannon weeping, softly, and Morgan  whispered calming words. But none of it mattered. What mattered was the  sight of my Anabelle, lying there as if dead. Her red curls looked even  more like fire when resting against her alabaster skin.

"My love … " I whispered. "I promised you safety. I'll never forgive myself."

The priests returned from their whispered conversation. "Your  majesties," the priest who held the Heart said, "it would appear as  though there was some enchantment placed on this stone. We will need  more time in which to better understand the implications of what has  transpired."

The stone. It was cursed. I felt the room spinning about me. It all made sense.

"Take it to Gaeth," I managed to whisper through the haze in my head. "Have him do what he can. We must save her."

Just then, Rhiannon spoke. "Did you … is the … ?"

The oldest priest smiled at her, kindly. "Yes, your majesty. The child lives."

My head snapped around, my eyes boring holes into the priest who had spoken. "The child?"

"Yes, my King. The child the Queen carries within her. Your child."

*

I screamed and roared in my blazing, impotent rage. Flames shot from my  mouth, singeing treetops, sending flocks of birds scattering through the  sky. Damn Arthur. Damn him to hell for all eternity.

"Don't you see?" I had asked once the priests had left, nearly  hysterical in my grief. "His words. I've taken the heart of the dragon  once, and will do so again … sooner than you know. He didn't mean my  heart, not my actual heart. Nor did he mean the necklace. He meant her!"

I swept a tray full of food and drink onto the floor, and threw a plate  against the hearth where it smashed into pieces. How could I have been  such a fool? It was right there all along.

"He knew I would wear it. He knew I would see it as a symbol of my  father. How could I have been such a fool? He knew it would touch her,  somehow. All he had to do was bide his time! Damn him!" I threw a mug of  mead into the fire, where it flared up.         

     



 

"Brother!" Morgan shouted over the clamor, taking me by the arms.  "You're right. This is what his words meant. He fooled us all. But don't  you see, allowing yourself to be undone like this is exactly what he's  planning on! Taking your heart not just by harming your wife but by  crushing your spirit. You cannot allow him to do this."

I felt Morgan's words seeping into my consciousness. As always, he was right. I took a deep breath and forced myself to be calm.

"And what of the child?" I whispered, tears blurring my vision. "My  child? Why didn't she tell me?" Then I remembered, clearly Anabelle  saying that there was something she wanted to tell me … before we were  interrupted by the entrance of the beggar. She was going to break the  news to me then. Now I understood her pensiveness, the way she sank so  far into her thoughts immediately after she first saw the vision along  with Rhiannon. She wasn't simply worrying for herself or even me. She  was thinking about the child growing inside her.

"She told me that day, when we saw the vision in the flames," Rhiannon  explained now. "She didn't know if she should share the news with you  right away, or wait until it seemed as though the excitement had calmed.  She knew that if you were worried for the welfare of both her and the  child, it would double your burden. She promised me to secrecy."

Yes, that sounded exactly like something my mate would do. I looked at  my mother. "What is there to be done? What course of action can we  take?"

"There is only one thing you can do, my son." Rhiannon rose from her  seat and crossed the room to face me. She was once again every inch the  mother I remembered. A warrior.

She looked straight into my eyes. "It's very simple. You will face Arthur. And you will kill him."



And now I flew, setting the sky on fire just as I wished I could set  fire to Arthur's wretched body and miserable soul. Morgan flew behind me  at a safe distance. I knew that he was both concerned for my welfare  and granting release to his own frustrations. I knew that he had come to  care for Anabelle as a sister … and that he was fearful for his own  welfare, as well. After all, if I should die at Arthur's hand, he would  become King. Or perhaps he, too, would be killed. Either way, he had his  own frustrations and anxieties to work out as he flew.

Every beat of my massive blue-black wings carried her name. Anabelle.  Anabelle. I remembered the bliss we had experienced in each other's  arms. The way she had defied me, daring to stand up to me as I raged at  her. The way she had fought her own apprehension in order to reach out  and touch me after I first shifted shapes in front of her.