His dark blue gaze flicks back to me, fear in his eyes. Along with a terrible flash of burning, oilslick crimson rage from his Berserker now.
Impossible to miss.
“We’ll be outside,” Bjorn rumbles, as I feel him usher everyone out, leaving me alone with Baldur. I feel Bjorn’s trust in me, and my ability to handle this, as he takes everyone out the door, beyond the library hall.
I’m grateful they’re only just outside, however.
As I wonder what in the actual fuck I’m going to do with my magically addicted Fourth Drake.
13
TRUST
Istare at Baldur in the empty mirror-stone hall, and he watches me. Though I can’t feel anything from him through our Bloodbond, since he’s shut me out so completely right now, I can read the guilt and defiance written all over his face. He sits before me on his chaise, unrepentant. Slowly, I draw in a deep breath and let it out, steadying myself for the tough conversation we’re about to have.
Then diving right in.
“So. You’re addicted to using magic.” It’s not a question, as I stare him down hard. I’m not giving an inch, as I flare my magic in a real dominance-challenge all around us now, daring him to defy me.
“Runic binding magic, yes. Not lesser magic.” Baldur doesn’t lie to me, though I see that defiant heat flare again in his eyes, vicious, as he wrangles his power down as much as he can now.
To not flare and fight me.
“Tell me more,” I say firmly, willing myself to keep my posture open and not cross my arms, even though my magic’s blazing—because I need him to open up to me, rather than shut this conversation down right now.
I watch as that furious heat flares in his eyes again, however, before hecloses them. With a serious will, Baldur draws a deep breath, mastering himself, as I feel him haul all his rageful dragon’s fury back.
It’s here now, however, and it’s here to stay; even as I feel how his inner darkness wants to lash out at me, I see the Black Dragon’s curses upon Baldur’s flesh eat into him just a fraction of an inch more.
Because his undealt-with inner darkness is driving those curses upon him. And the curses are destabilizing his ability to keep his darkness contained.
Leaving us in a dangerous place, as we fight now to figure this out.
“Talk to me, Baldur. It’s life-and-death we’re all facing if we can’t help you get your inner darkness and these curses under control. You know it is,” I say with as much empathy as I can right now, as something deep inside me both snarls and keens for my Fourth Drake.
I reach out, then take Baldur’s hand on the coverlet and squeeze it hard. It makes him startle that I’ve bridged this distance between us and made contact; his long eyelashes flicker as his blue eyes meet mine.
They’re blue, then they’re red, then blue again, however, as he fights hard against his darkest nature, resurging like a leviathan of the cosmos inside him. All thanks to his addiction, an ancient problem all around the world.
A demon to those who have it—every day.
As he sighs hard, Baldur gathers himself, then speaks.
“I’ve been addicted to using higher runic binding magic ever since I was a youngling,” he says, as he meets my gaze squarely this time. As his eyes finally settle into blue, I know I’m getting the truth, though he doesn’t take his inner wall down yet and allow me to feel his emotions through our bond.
“Can you tell me what that means?” I ask as we sit together on the chaise, and I keep hold of his hand. I let my magics settle all around us, no longer challenging him but listening now, as we sit together.
“It means that ever since I figured out how powerful a sigilwright I was, I sought the most difficult runic binding spells—the trickier,the better.” He laughs, wry as that devilish red sparks in his eyes again. “And they fucked me.”
“Fucked you, how?” I listen, giving him everything of my attention.
Though I leave my bond with Bjorn wide open, so the rest of our Bloodbond can get Baldur’s full tale as he speaks.
“Runic binding magic is a tricky art, not a science, Rikyava.” Baldur is sad now as he regards me, woe in his eyes, along with regret. “When I was a youngling in my first hundred years, I experimented with it too much—with detrimental effect. My sister Hekla tried to teach me everything she knew about caution, control, and care with it. But I was a hothead; I had a chip on my shoulder to prove myself in our family’s ancient arts, and I was driven by a sensation deep inside me I couldn’t possibly name. It was a sensation of satisfaction that swept me whenever I performed the most challenging runic binding arts; of being fulfilled, beyond what anything else could ever give me, even the finest wines and the hottest sex. It was a feeling that when I bound something, or someone… I became a god. A god like the ancients out in their endless Void. Creating as gods do.”
“Or destroying.” I understand, as I watch him carefully now. As Baldur shuts his eyes again, sighing sharply, I know I’m spot-on.
“There came a time in my hundred and eighth year,” he keeps his eyes closed, hiding his beautiful self from me, “that I experimented with some of the trickiest sigil-bindings I had ever come across. Writings ten thousand years old, they were vague, and I was rash in trying to replicate them. When I at last implemented my year-long study of what I needed to do, I leveled six villages in my attempt.”
