“ ‘No one may pass,’ “ he repeated. “Except by invitation, and only those women who are strong in the dragon-magic. No one else is admitted, not even the Blessed. What is in that palace that no one is meant to see?”

No one may pass. At least not across the bridge, and that was the only way inside the mountain.

The only way for humans . . . Not for dragons.

Draconas glanced up in frustration at the buildings that towered over him and pressed in around him. He thought of the Abbey and the broad, open expanses of grassy meadows that surrounded it, and he headed in that direction at a run.

Ven rose from his sickbed shortly after supper, and over the protests of the monks, he announced his intention of going for a walk in the cool night air. He needed to get out, to walk off his trouble, as Bellona termed it. The mind worked better when the body was active. Ven needed exercise, needed fresh air, not the stale, monk-breathed air of the sick room.

He started for the door, but at this the monks did more than protest. They told him firmly that he was not to venture out— Grald’s orders.

Ven argued and even threatened. The monks were careful to keep their distance, for they feared him, but they apparently feared Grald more, for Ven was not able to shake their resolve. When he saw sparks dance on their fingertips and heard the crackle and sizzle of magic in the air, he was forced to back down.

“It is not personal to you, Dragon’s Son,” one of the monks told him in tones meant to be mollifying. “No one walks the streets of Dragonkeep after the Slumber Hour. Take your rest this night and I will ask Grald if you may be permitted to go forth on the morrow.”

Ven was left with nothing more than the small satisfaction of ordering the monks out of his room.

Alone, he paced and paced, his claws clicking loudly on the wood floor, back and forth, back and forth—an irritating sound that he hoped was annoying the hell out of the monks.

He had much to think about, not the least of which was how he would fulfill the promise of his name—Vengeance. He had sworn an oath to the spirit of Bellona that he would avenge his mother’s death. How he was to fight a dragon, when he couldn’t even stand up to a half-starved, half-mad monk, was more than Ven could fathom.

He thought again of trying to learn the magic and rejected the idea. He wanted no part of the dragon within him. The human part of him would kill the father who had made him. And it was then, in his pacing and his thinking, that Ven realized a truth about himself.

He was not just avenging his mother’s death. He was avenging his own accursed birth.