Warriors of Wind and Ash - Page 102

“You and Serylla will ride on my back,” Kyreagan says. “Ashvelon, you should remain here until I send someone to replace you. From now on, each dragon in the clan shall take a turn guarding this island for a few days at a time. We’ll set up a rotation. That way, Rahzien can’t devise a way to leave, and if anyone comes to fetch him, we’ll know. And we can keep an eye on his health, provide him with supplies.”

“Of course, my Prince,” says Ashvelon.

Thelise looks unhappy, but she doesn’t protest Kyreagan’s arrangement. She kisses Ashvelon and whispers something in his ear that makes him flush bright red. After I retrieve my bag, she follows me to Kyreagan’s side, and we mount one at a time, finding places to sit between his spikes.

With the extra weight, the flight to Ouroskelle is a struggle for Kyreagan. The air currents aren’t as favorable, and I can hear the wind whistling through one of the holes in his wings. But he manages somehow, and at last we drop off Thelise in Ashvelon’s cave. It’s so dark and chilly that I urge Kyreagan to light a dyre-stone for her, which he does.

“You’ll be alright?” I ask her.

“Of course! I’m worn out from the spell, anyway. Won’t take me long to fall asleep. Enjoy your night, you two.”

She waves us off with a cheerful smile, but when we’re aloft and I look back, I see her standing alone in the great cave, silhouetted against the orange glow of the dyre-stone, shoulders slumped and head bowed.

“You should send someone to take Ashvelon’s place tomorrow,” I tell Kyreagan. “She shouldn’t be by herself too long.”

“Hasn’t she lived alone most of her life?” he asks.

“That’s why she needs him.”

He rumbles in agreement. “I’ll send someone in the morning.”

We glide through the night, a silent shadow between the mountains, and then Kyreagan pounds his huge wings in one last effort to lift us higher, higher, until we reach the ledge of his cave.

My heart nearly stops at the sight of a dragon curled in the cave entrance, but then the dragon lifts his slender neck and I recognize the flared ears and jaw spikes of Rothkuri.

He startles up, bowing his head. “My Prince! You’ve returned! Then the rescue was successful? Where are the others?”

“They’re disposing of the remaining Vohrainian soldiers. Carrying them across the border and dropping them into their own land,” Kyreagan says dryly. “Serylla and I had some other garbage to dispose of. But we’re back now, and we’re exhausted. It was a most unpleasant experience.”

“The clan will want to hear all about it,” says Rothkuri.

“Tomorrow.” Kyreagan’s voice is strained, weary. “I should speak with Varex before I sleep, though. Is he in his cave?”

Rothkuri averts his gaze. “I’m not sure. I’m sure he will be pleased to see you tomorrow. Let me wake Everelle, and we’ll return to our cave.”

He prowls over to the huge nest, where his plump mate lies on her side, one arm beneath her head. Nestled against her large, soft belly are two pale eggs. Our eggs are nestled in the grass not far away.

Rothkuri wakes Everelle by licking her rosy cheek, and she smiles up at him with such adoring joy that I want to squeal with happiness for the two of them. She tucks their eggs into a sling bag stuffed with grass, which she wears across the front of her body, then she mounts Rothkuri’s neck.

“Such a clever idea, that bag,” I tell her.

“I’ll make you one, if you like.”

“I would love that. Thank you for watching over our eggs.”

“We are in your debt,” says Kyreagan, bowing his head.

“No debt,” Rothkuri replies. “We were pleased to do it.”

Once they disappear into the night, Kyreagan and I move to the nest. He noses the eggs and I lay my palm against each of them.

And for a moment we don’t speak. We are simply grateful.

Then Kyreagan lies down, circling the eggs with his body, and I lean against his belly. I nibble a little food from my bag and sip from my water flask, but I’ve been awake for far too long, and my eyes are drifting shut on their own. So I give in, and sink into sleep.

31

I dream that I’m flying over Ouroskelle in the dead of night, through starlit space. Holes begin to pop through my wings, one after another, until I’m soaring with only the skeletal frame and the tattered remnants of my wings. Then my body desiccates and I’m only a spirit, a ghostly serpent slithering upward through the icy air, with the ashes of my destroyed body falling around me. I was a warrior once, and now I am alone, undone, nothing but wind and ash.