Warriors of Wind and Ash - Page 94

“How do you cope with it?” I ask him. “The deaths you’ve caused?”

He’s quiet for a moment, the subtle slump of his wings the only change in his stance. “You killed her, didn’t you? The Poisoner?”

“I had to. Or I thought I had to. Or… I wanted to. And I thought I’d settled the matter within myself but…” My voice trails off.

“Whatever your motives were, the thing is done. You cannot change it. Nor can I bring back everyone I scorched to ashes during the war.”

“She’s not the only one I’ve killed,” I confess. “Back on Ouroskelle, one of the other women tried to murder me. I killed her instead.”

“I know.”

My eyebrows rise. “You know?”

“One of the other dragons found her body. While we were preparing to weather the Mordvorren, he told me she’d been killed, and he mentioned where he found her. It was along the same brook where you and I kissed for the first time, except we were downstream from that spot. You steered us downstream. So yes—I knew.”

“You never asked me about it. You could have, while we were waiting out the Mordvorren. Did you not care?”

“I knew you weren’t the kind of woman to take a life recklessly. I trusted that you had a good reason.”

“You should have asked me.”

“Perhaps. Or maybe you should have told me. Did you fear I would think less of you? I, who have slain hundreds?”

“It’s different when you’re face to face with someone. When it’s personal, and it’s blood and flesh, and you’re looking into their eyes when they…” My voice trails off, and I press my fingertips to my forehead. “I didn’t want you to think I was capable of that.”

“Serylla.” His voice is darkly tender, and his muzzle bumps my shoulder lightly. “I think you’re capable of surviving. Of protecting the ones you care for. I think you’re capable of any number of magnificent and terrible things. Each of us carries a fire that can warm or wound. From now on we choose together, you and I. We decide which is the right way to wield that fire.”

The battle rages on in the city below us. Dragons wheel overhead or dive between buildings. Explosions shatter the air and men scream immediately afterward. The streets echo with the hollow beat of mighty wings and the cries of the rebels and the citizens as they take back their city.

Kyreagan should be with his clan, helping to win the day. Instead he’s perched on a rooftop, cherishing me with his words, with that rich, velvety voice of his.

I rise and take his sleek muzzle in both my hands. “I love you, you know.”

He blinks inky lashes over his yellow eyes. “I know. And we’ll talk more of this matter, if you like, but now we should follow Rahzien. If the distance between you grows too wide, you may start to feel ill.”

When we reach the palace courtyard, I’m astonished to find most of the Vohrainians already corralled in one area, guarded by the stable-master, his boys, and one of the dragons. Many of the Vohrainian soldiers have lost arms or hands—I doubt most of them will make it through the day without healing. The lucky ones look traumatized by the turn of events, and terrified of the scarlet dragon who prowls the periphery of the group, snarling intermittently and exhaling plumes of smoke.

A section of one palace tower is on fire, but one of the dragons is jetting sparkling streams of water onto the flames. This dragon has different coloring than Rothkuri, and I’m glad, because that means Rothkuri is still on Ouroskelle, watching over our eggs. Have they hatched already? Will the hatchlings believe that Rothkuri and Everelle are their parents? Will they even want me and Kyreagan when we return? What if they despise me, like I despised my mother? What if they injure me with their teeth, fire, or claws, without meaning to? After all, I’m their weak, fragile human mother…

“Your Majesty!” It’s Myron, the head cook of the palace kitchens. He and several of the other cooks and maids cross the courtyard, armed with butcher knives, frying pans, and fireplace pokers. It takes me a moment to realize that when they say “Your Majesty,” they’re talking to me.

Kyreagan stretches his long neck to its full height and gazes down upon them. They stop short, cautious about approaching him.

I climb down from his back and run to Myron. It’s been so long since I was folded in his embrace and he smells the same, like cooking grease and baked bread and sage. I bury my face in his ample shoulder and hold on.

“Ay, there, don’t cry,” he whispers. “You did well. I only wish we’d had the courage to rise up sooner. Could’ve spared you the pain.”

“No, you couldn’t have,” I tell him. “I’m glad you didn’t. You would have been killed.”

A shout erupts behind me, and I turn to see the prison cart rolling into the courtyard. Aeris stands atop it, her legs wide apart, knives in both hands.

More servants emerge from the palace, gathering around the cart as it halts. When Odrash yanks open the door and pulls Rahzien out, the crowd of servants bursts into a unified chorus of anger.

“Kill him now!” yells someone.

“Don’t touch him!” bellows Myron. “His life is bound to the Queen’s!”

At his shout, the crowd settles somewhat, and someone yells, “Let’s search the palace! Find every last Vohrainian!” And they all rush back inside.