Warriors of Wind and Ash - Page 91

They drag me along the corridor, through a side door, into a small courtyard. A cart with barred windows sits there, and I’m shoved inside onto the straw-covered floor. I force myself partly upright, leaning back against the wall. There’s a wooden bench across one end of the cart, but I don’t bother pulling myself onto it.

“I’ll ride with him and make sure he doesn’t try anything,” says one of the Vohrainians.

“Look at him,” scoffs another. “He’s in no shape to flee.”

“Still, better to be careful,” replies the first. “He’s the King’s prize captive.”

“As you wish.”

The first soldier climbs into the cart with me, and the door is shut. Within seconds, we’re rattling across cobblestones.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“The Outer Market.” The soldier’s voice has changed, and I recognize its merry, sardonic lilt. Hope threads through my soul.

“Meridian,” I whisper.

He takes off his helmet and tosses back his shock of dark red hair. His eye gleams bright blue, triumphant. “I have something for you. A gift from Serylla.” He holds up a glass bottle of blue liquid.

My heart sinks. “They caught her.”

“Yes, but she obtained this first.”

“What is it?”

“If I had to guess, she forced the healer—excuse me, the poisoner—to concoct it. It may be an antidote that allows you to shift, or it may cause instant death. It’s your choice whether or not you want to risk it.”

“What have I got to lose?”

“Exactly my thoughts. You could take it now, and break out of this cart, but I suspect it would be best to wait. I believe the King wants to bring you and Serylla together at the market, and chastise you publicly before the people. You should take this right before you leave the cart… or perhaps wait until you have eyes on Serylla. If you hold the vial just right, no one will see that you have it. Just like the street magicians do. Watch.”

He teaches me a few ways to conceal the small bottle in my hand, and during the ride to the market, I practice them over and over.

“If they’re getting ready to chain your arms, you’ll have to drink it quickly,” Meridian says. “Once the change happens, I’ll help you protect Serylla.”

I tip my head back against the wall of the cart and groan. “I still can’t take her far from Rahzien. And the Vohrainians’ guns are still a threat.”

Meridian grins. “I wouldn’t worry too much about the guns. Not today.”

“What does that mean?” I ask. “What did your people do?”

But he sets a finger against his scarred lips, then replaces his helmet. The cart is slowing, rattling to a halt. We’ve arrived at the market square.

I palm the bottle like he showed me. Despite the spasming muscles in my back, the weakness of my limbs, and the brutal handling of the soldiers who drag me from the cart, I manage to maintain my hold on it. As I mount the steps to the gallows platform, Meridian stays on my left side.

Serylla is already there, dressed in white, with a silver crown on her brow. She’s standing between two posts, her arms stretched upward in a V, pulled taut by chains. Defiance and terror shine in her eyes, and she has never looked more glorious.

It’s a gray morning, clouds thickening overhead with the promise of an afternoon storm. The crowd filling the square is silent and somber, corralled by the forces of their conquerors, unwilling witnesses to whatever Rahzien has planned. Wind tosses the pale skirts of Serylla’s dress, winnows through her hair, swirls in reckless eddies between her and me. It brings me her fragrance—and not only hers.

I lift my face to the wind, inhaling through my nose, trying to distill the separate scents. Grease from the food stalls, herbs from the market, the odor of warm bodies from the humans in the square, smoke from chimneys, the acrid stench of piss from the gutters, earth and leaves from the windowboxes of the townhouses… and beyond all of that, distant yet unmistakable, dozens of familiar scents, wild as the sky, keen as the wind.

The varied scents of the male dragons I’ve known my whole life. My brothers. My clan. They’re here, circling above the thick clouds, waiting.

They aren’t dead. The bird was lying. But Rahzien’s birds do not lie, which means someone gave the bird a false message. Someone who used to loiter around the Vohrainian troops during the war, making friends with them, learning secrets from careless mouths.

Someone I underestimated.

“Well done, Hinarax,” I whisper.