Blood Charged (Dragon Blood, Book 3) Read Free Page A

lines. Three of them had edges that had been dipped in red dye. She grabbed them for a quick look. The scrolls wouldn’t fit in her satchel, but on the off chance they held something important, she didn’t want to abandon them without a glance. As she unrolled the first, it occurred to her that if she had known about the red-for-evil-witchiness categorizing system, she could have limited her search to those records to start with.
    “Lesson learned…”
    She sucked in an excited breath when she spotted a familiar surname at the top of the first scroll. Maricoshin. That family had founded Referatu and had claimed numerous powerful sorcerers even by the standards of Sardelle’s day. She was taking these scrolls with her whether they fit in her satchel or not. She would simply sneak past the archivist on the way out…
    A click sounded in the corner of the room near the door.
    Before Sardelle could do more than wonder what it might be, orange light flashed, and a cacophony of noise roared in her ears. A wave of power slammed into her, hurling her from her feet. She crashed into a wall of books, and pain pummeled her body from all sides. Her lantern disappeared beneath falling furnishings—or maybe breaking beams and a falling ceiling.
    Blackness swallowed the room.
    * * *
    Colonel Ridgewalker Zirkander ambled through the courtyard of Harborgard Castle, giving cheerful nods and smiles to the dour-faced soldiers stationed next to the doors to the various towers, halls, and dormitories that opened up off the main driveway. Most stared stonily forward, refusing to acknowledge him—there was some rule on the books about castle guards not interacting with anyone, except to skewer intruders with swords—though a few offered quick grins and abbreviated waves when they thought none of their stolid brethren were looking.
    The dourest of the dour stood in front of the grand marble doors leading to the king’s audience chamber. They were open, letting in the sunlight—a welcome change from the rain and snow of the past three weeks—but one had to pass the guard’s scrutiny before entering, or so the rifle crooked in the man’s arms implied. The weapon was one of the few modern inventions on open display within the castle walls. A steam-powered crane sitting next to scaffolding erected against one of the towers marked another exception. The castle had survived nearly a millennium and was considered a Super Important Historical Landmark, meaning about seven hundred people on a dysfunctional committee had to approve architectural additions and changes. It had taken twenty years for them to decide to fix the holes in that tower after the last castle bombing. Fortunately for the castle—and the committee—attacks on the capital had been rare since the dragon flier base had been built above the harbor.
    The dour door guard knew who Ridge was and knew the king was expecting him, but he lowered his rifle and opened his mouth to start the familiar state-your-name-and-your-business-and-whether-you-swear-undying-fealty-to-the-king-and-Iskandia preamble that all guests had to endure.
    “You forgot to button yourself in,” Ridge said, pointing to the man’s crotch.
    The guard blinked and looked down. It only took him a second to see that it had been a joke, but by then, Ridge had slipped inside, avoiding the spiel. He caught Mister Dour’s sigh at the same time as a familiar gray-haired man stepped out of the alcove by the entryway and held up a hand. His dress uniform was immaculate, the creases in his trousers pressed to rigid crispness, and his boots polished so brightly one could shave in the reflection. Neat rows of medals and ribbons lined the breast of his jacket.
    “General Ort, you were invited to this meeting too?” Ridge asked, though he was used to higher-ranking officers being present whenever he was invited to the castle. He was just the trigger for the gun that was his squadron, not someone who had enough clout to be a