by Laura Harris
“You’re stupider than you look. And that’s saying something,” she commented.
“What?” he repeated, then cursed internally. He’d said the same word three times in a row. It was only going to back up her statement. “I’m not stupid. I studied for years, beat my older brothers at literature and arithmetic!” Well not Glyn, because Glyn was way smarter than all of them. But she didn’t have to know that.
She snorted. “That doesn’t mean you’re not stupid.”
He felt like this conversation was going in circles – and in completely the opposite direction to what he wanted.
/I definitely like her./
“So what’s stupid to you?” he retorted, trying to take comfort in the fact that at least he was holding a conversation with her, even if it was an unpleasant one.
“Not being able to talk to someone that’s been inside your head your whole life. Not being able to come up with a half–decent reply. Saying ‘what’ three times in a row.”
He swore again inside his head.
/My ears! Spare me your foul words, Corran!/
“Not my fault I can’t talk to him. Gerard says it’s a mental block, because of my father.”
That was Gerard’s latest theory, anyway.
“You can’t talk to ‘him’?”
A smile danced on her lips as she caught him out. He tried to act like she hadn’t.
“Yes? I’ve still been able to hear him sometimes.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Liar.”
“No I’m not. What’s it matter to you anyway?”
“Well Baltair likes to know who’s around… it helps stir his memories.”
“Stir his memories?”
This time he’d caught her out – he could tell by how she pressed her lips together.
She tried to shrug it off but he was sure he was onto something.
“It’s been a while, the memories are blurred. If you could talk to your dragon you’d know the same.”
And now he had her for sure, because even though the memories he had glimpsed of Frang’s were few, none of them had been blurred at all. Some had been clearer than his own.
“Well what does he remember? Maybe it would prompt Fr–my dragon.”
She gazed at him with narrow eyes and he hoped she wouldn’t comment on his slip–up. It seemed this conversation was full of blunders from both of them. What else she might be hiding?
“We remember living in the mountains in summer, the Orvale Mines in winter,” she murmured.
He focused on her words, listening out for anything that might prove useful. He was already learning. He’d had no idea that dragons migrated.
“Fighting off the invaders from Ikjor, getting gold in exchange. It fed our eggs.”
It was disconcerting how she spoke of herself and Baltair as if they were one person.
“Flying over these fields, the ones we’re in right now. It was raining. We were hunting – deer, for the hatchlings. New hatchlings! Weak, though… they haven’t had enough gold.”
Corran listened with rapt attention and was aware of the others around them listening in too, shuffling closer and leaning forward. It wasn’t the information he’d been hoping to get out of her, but he couldn’t stop listening.
Her eyes closed. “Weaker, now… the meat doesn’t help. The miners won’t give us gold.”
Unexpected sorrow filled Corran and it took him several long moments to locate the source. It came from Frang.
Giselle’s eyes snapped open and she stared straight at him. Fire blazed in her expression. “Dragons reduced to flying lizards. And it’s your fault.”
She stood and walked off into the forest, leaving the others to murmur around Corran. He saw Sarra hurry after her but he doubted she would get anything but shouts in return.
He tried to shake himself back to sense, but her last words kept repeating in his head. It wasn’t his fault. He’d only been a toddler. Anyway, he shouldn’t feel guilty. He should feel proud of his father for freeing Auland of the monsters when no one else would.
He should. But as the others whispered, his stomach twisted with shame.
CHAPTER 15
The mountains rose high, piercing the deep blue sky. Giselle struggled to contain herself. A mass of dark green covered the rocky slopes and even from so far away she recognised it as the trees she had flown over with Baltair in his memories.
“We made it. We’re home,” she whispered, staring up above them.
/Home,/ Baltair rumbled in reply, strength filling his voice. A dash of new memories ran through them both; playing in the snow as hatchlings, breaking down the pine trees when they were almost grown, the first hunt…
They breathed in the mountain air together and Giselle clung to Baltair. Gerard was pointing out the village up ahead, but it meant they were even closer to the time when Baltair would have to leave. She had no memories of this place; she had to rely on his. Would she still have those memories when he was gone?
The thought of not having his steady voice always with her sent a lump flying to her throat, like she’d swallowed a fish bone and it had got caught.
/Giselle…/
He wanted to comfort her, but there was little he could say. She could feel his own regret, mixed with a longing that he tried to hide that still burned her. And yet they didn’t even know where the eggs where. Sometimes she wondered if it was necessary – but then she saw Garth, weaker every day and rolled up in blankets in the back of the cart. Everyone knew his dragon was killing him, but no one dared say it. Baltair was terrified every time she had just a coughing fit.
Everyone’s footsteps got faster as they walked towards the village. Henry bounced next to the old horse that plodded along dutifully. Sarra and Gerard both wore wide smiles. This was home for them. Cridhal, it was called. Only a village, so close to the mountains, but it had been the centre of dragon relations for years. They had both grown up here and so had most of the famous Fliers whose stories had travelled as far as the capital sixteen years on.
The village got closer and closer until they could see people wandering about. A few of them stopped and turned to look. The nearer they got, the more Giselle felt like Baltair was expanding in her mind. Something was rising and neither of them understood it, except that this place was important. Something momentous was here.
The eggs?
/No… something else. Something more./
Their pace sped up until they were walking faster than any of the others. Giselle heard Sarra call to her, but she couldn’t stop. The villagers were approaching, trying to talk but she ignored all of them as well. There was more here than just strangers.
The moment she stepped parallel with the first building, it clicked.
/Home. Simon./
“Simon!” she gasped, instantly understanding as the memories flooded her head. She broke out into a run.
Her feet had never trod this path before but she knew exactly the direction to go – to the west of the village, where some of the houses were built into the side of the mountain cliff. Someone stepped in front of her and she pushed past them, eyes focused on one house. The door had been repainted, the garden was different… but it was his house. Simon’s house. The need to reach him filled every part of her and she burst through the door, swivelling to find him.
A child screamed and a woman shouted, but Giselle’s eyes were solely on the small old man with one arm sitting in a chair. One arm… The memory of failing to protect him filled her with fresh pain but she ran to him, throwing her arms around him.
/Simon! My Flier, I am so sorry! I’m sorry! Simon…/
It was the closest Giselle had ever got to hearing Baltair cry and the sound tore through her. She clung to the man tighter, tremors running through her body and rushing to her head. Someone grabbed her from behind and pulled her back but it was the waves of dizziness that made her let go.
“Simon…” she mumbled, fighting through t
he sudden blackness to see him. She couldn’t lose him again, not so soon! She waded through the darkness but her body betrayed her and her legs buckled, dropping her to the floor. Baltair’s thoughts were all Simon; there was no space for her. Noise was everywhere, pounding footsteps and shouting voices that were far too loud. She struggled, clawing for a hold on something–
/Giselle!/
Finally he saw and pulled her back, digging in tight and tugging with all his strength to draw her close to him. Simon faded to just an echo in the back of his mind as he focused on her.
/My girl… my Firesoul. Stay, please. I’m here./
The darkness faded. Light filtered in, first little rays then more as her eyelids fluttered. Baltair’s presence was still close to overwhelming, but she could feel how he held himself back. Part of him was still absorbed Simon and the memories he and his Flier had shared for three decades that were rushing back, but she could feel the effort he exerted for her.
When her eyes opened fully, Sarra was in front of her, kneeling on the floor of the house. Her lips pinched tight together and Giselle could see the fear in her expression.
“Giselle?” she whispered, reaching out to press a cold palm to her forehead.
“Mhm?”
Sarra let out a little laugh and some of the anxiety faded from her face.
“You need to work on your introductions,” she joked breathily, sitting back. Temporarily sure that she was okay, she stood and turned to the bed and the old man still sat there. He watched her where she lay on the floor, but with Sarra right in front of him he turned to her and offered her a brief hug.
“You okay Pa?” she murmured.
He nodded, his eyes back on Giselle. She felt like she might start spinning again with this new revelation, but Baltair kept her grounded. She stood, shaky at first. It felt like she hadn’t eaten anything for days, at the same time as feeling like she was about to throw up any remnants remaining in her stomach. She glanced around to see two children and an old woman watching her from the other side of the room. Sarra gestured her forward and this time she approached Simon at a steadier pace. It hurt to see how much he had aged. Wrinkles lined his face and his hair was a wispy grey at best. Sunspots littered his leathery skin, but he watched her with an intensity that told her he still had all his wits. The severed arm was an ugly reminder of his last flight.
“Pa, this is–”
“Baltair.”
He stared up at her, a smile wavering on his lips.
“Uh, yes. And Giselle,” Sarra said. “Giselle, this is my father Simon. He was Baltair’s Flier – but I think you already knew that.”
Giselle hovered, unsure what to do. Baltair’s attention was fixed on Simon with just a little remaining to steady her. He urged her forwards, but she remained stock still several feet away. Her thoughts were a jumble. Part of her, the part influenced by Baltair, longed to reach out and check he was really there, speak to him, remember with him… but another part that was staying stubbornly in place was wary. Baltair had tried to leave her – not because he had to, not because he was worried she’d turn ill like Garth, but because he’d seen Simon. Simon, his Flier for decades before she had been born. Simon, who’d fought alongside him, talked to the King on his behalf, lived his life side by side. He’d seen Simon and forgot all about her. The fear of losing him gripped her all over again, but this time it was tinged with bitterness.
/Giselle, no.../
She didn’t reply, out loud or in her head. She’d felt it and he knew it. She turned to walk away, but Baltair cried out.
/No! Please, let me speak to him! It has been so long.../
The desperation in his voice stilled her and she sighed. What do you want to say to him? I’ll repeat it, like before.
/Tell him… I missed him. Tell him I’m glad he’s safe./
“He missed you. He’s glad you’re safe.” Her voice was dull. She made a careful effort to talk about Baltair as someone else rather than the both of them together. She stared at the wall behind Simon’s head as she spoke.
/I’m sorry about his arm, I wish I could have come back but I had to get to the eggs, I had to save them before the soldiers got to them./
“He’s sorry about your arm. He had other stuff to do so he couldn’t come back.”
/The eggs! Tell him it was the eggs, he’ll understand that!/
“He had to protect the eggs.”
Her throat was tight and she struggled to talk in a normal tone.
“It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt now,” Simon replied. She glanced at him and saw him pat the stump. “He… how is he?”
“Fine.”
/Better than fine! I’m back here, with him, mountains all around!/
“Happy,” she amended. She felt a sting in her hand; her nails were digging into her palm. Baltair fumbled for words in her head and she fought to stay her ground for him – but she couldn’t. It was too much. That man would take Baltair away forever.
She ran from the house, just as she had entered, pushing through the small gaggle of people idling near the door. A couple of them tried to speak to her, even follow her, but she doubled her pace as soon as she was out in the open. Baltair was shouting but she stumbled into the trees at the edge of the village anyway, darting through them. Low branches knocked her, needles scraping at her skin. She tripped over rocks and the rough, uneven ground.
/Giselle! Where are you going?/ Baltair roared.
She doubled over, panting, trying to ignore his mix of anger and confusion.
“Sorry,” she whispered.
He simmered with irritation. The first and only time before now she had wished him out of her head had been the night her guard had thrown her out onto the streets of Tyrun. He had tried to argue that it was good, that he would keep her safe and that her guard was not a nice person – but she had cried on the doorway until her guard had come out to shout at her to leave. Baltair had forced her away and she had hated him with every step.
Now she only wished that he would not see her reaction to this turn of events. She didn’t want him gone, not really, and that was the whole problem. She couldn’t imagine her life without him. He’d always been there. It had always been Giselle and Voice. What would happen after he had his own body? Where would she go? Back to Tyrun, alone?
He tried to speak but she blocked him, shouting noise in her head so she couldn’t hear. She didn’t want to hear him right now – and she didn’t want him to hear her. She didn’t want him to see the painful, bitter fire twisting in her stomach that had been there ever since she’d recovered from his reaction to seeing Simon. Tears slid down her face, but as much as she tried she couldn’t cry out the burn.
CHAPTER 16
Corran did his best to not give into his nerves as they walked through the dragon village. He was in the den of his enemy and Frang had been bouncing all morning.
They were directed by Gerard towards a large, seemingly empty house as Sarra disapepared after Giselle. Garth disappeared as well; he had spiralled into his sickness the past few days.
“Corran?”
Gerard’s hand fell on his shoulder before he could follow the other Firesouls into the building.
“The mayor wants to speak to you.”
“Just me?”
Gerard nodded. “Sorry. This way.”
Corran followed with trepidation, nerves rising. Had they found him out? Why was he being taken away from the others? He had convinced the Firesouls but now there were more people to convince. Would he mess up like he almost had so many times before?
They entered a large house that had been built against the cliff face. Several people were there already – two children playing on the floor, an old man with one arm and Sarra, who paced with worry all over her face. What had Giselle done now?
“You are the Dunslade boy?”
His eyes snapped to the old man who stood opposite, fixing him with a keen gaze, and nodded. He still wore an immaculate blue Flier uniform. That
coupled with his stub of an arm painted a fierce picture of a man still at war. Almost, Corran mused, like Lord Huwcyn.
“He’s the spitting image of his father,” the man said to Sarra, unnerving Corran even more. How did he know that? His father would never have consorted with a Flier!
“I am Simon, mayor of Cridhal. Your brothers are on their way.”
“What?”
He bit his tongue to stop himself saying anymore. Simon seemed to be waiting for him to slip up. He restrained his impatience for an explanation and tried not to let his eyes linger on the stump of the man’s arm.
“They’ve been following you for a few weeks now.”
“Why?” Corran whispered, unable to think fast enough to come up with a sensible response.
“Why do you think? To catch the Firesouls and find out how to stop the dragons returning.”
He glanced away from the old man to look at Gerard instead. He gazed back, encouragement clear in his face. He was sure of Corran and for a second it made him feel guilty. Then he rolled his eyes at himself for how ridiculous it was to feel guilty because of Gerard, of all people.
/Hardly. He’s the reason you should be guilty. Him. Henry. Me. Everyone here. Everyone who had their lives ruined because of dragonslayers who’d always been jealous of mountain folk./
The serious tone set Corran more on edge. Frang never spoke like that.
/Being here reminds me how much we lost./
He struggled not to scowl. He hadn’t done anything wrong to feel guilty about, it was his father! And even if he had, they were dragons. Dragons couldn’t live alongside humans. Dragons couldn’t be allowed to live at all.
/Why?/
“So why are you telling me?” he asked, trying not to give any sign that he was battling with guilt. There must be some reason he had been called here but not any of the others.
“We need to know if we can trust you.”
“What?” He tried to sound suitably outraged. “Haven’t I proved myself enough? Will you people never be satisfied?”
/It’s a shame your acting has improved./
“Gerard is a good judge of character and I wish I could take his word – but I knew your father. I can’t imagine any of his sons turning out so… mellow.”