Lavery came to this conclusion at approximately the same time he heard a fwhip.
“Ah!” he cried, grabbing at his neck. A dart had sunk into his flesh. He grasped the fletching, but his fingers slipped. His head listed, and his whole body wavered.
He felt very, very sleepy.
It felt good to close his eyes. Maybe he’d lie down for a while. Maybe—
Lavery collapsed.
From behind him approached a shadow.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Oriana put her hair up in a tight bun to avoid drenching it in the blood that had spattered her.
“That was easy,” Rol said, wiping his blade off with a large leaf the jungle around them had generously provided.
“An illusionary sorcerer makes for quick disposal of enemies,” Horace said, shoving his dirk inside its sheath. “I could have used one or two when I was spymaster for Valios.”
Oriana ignored them. She also ignored all the blood that drenched her, because her baby took priority over all else.
Chained to nine trees and two boulders, Sarpella stood in the center of a small island, surrounded by half a dozen dead Tridents and scores of ancient trees, their branches thicker than the dragon’s haunches.
Sarpella looked at Oriana with a wet, icy eye, her scales a dull blue even though the sun above shined with fury upon the island. The dense canopy blunted its light.
“You’re okay, girl,” Oriana told her, approaching with care and caution. Sarpella was her dragon. Her child, all things considered. But she wasn’t human. She had primal instincts to lash out if threatened, even against those she loved.
Sarpella purred and went to nuzzle her long, broad face against Oriana. She couldn’t reach.
Oriana smiled and disregarded the slow, careful approach. She ran to her big girl and hugged her leathery neck. Sarpella continued purring, happy and content.
“A kind and considerate dragon,” Horace ruminated. “Two attributes I would not think belonged to such a ferocious creature.”
“Piss her off and you’ll see a whole other list of attributes,” Rol said. “Let’s get those chains undone. One of the poor bastards here has to have a key.”
Rol and Horace searched the bodies on the leaf-littered floor of the island, turning them over without regard for dignity of the dead.
“Got a key,” Rol said. “Don’t know if it’s the right key, but we’ll see.”
Oriana inspected Sarpella’s face. “Open up,” she said. Sarpella opened her mouth, showing her four sets of razor teeth, a pair on the top and bottom. “Your chompers look good. Where did they hurt you?”
Sarpella gestured with her head toward her flank.
“Say it. Tell me where.”
Sarpella hesitated. She’d begun speaking a few months ago—not verbally, as dragons are incapable of audible speech—but lacked confidence and preferred gestures.
Si…side, she said, the word a frail, unsure whisper in Oriana’s mind.
“That’s right,” Oriana said, smiling and gently patting the dragon’s face. “That’s the word. Okay, let me see.” She went around to Sar’s flank and almost gasped. She swallowed her concerns, though, worried she’d scare her big girl. “It’s pretty raw, but it’ll heal well, I think. Does it hurt?”
Sarpella grunted, which in dragonese meant, Yes, but I’m not going to show it.
The prying of Sarpella’s scale by Farris—or more likely, by one of her lackeys—had left behind a raw patch of blistery red flesh. It didn’t look infected, exactly, but neither did it look healthy and on the mend.
“We’ll need to patch this,” Oriana said. “And get some salve; herb of the mother, too, if we can.”
Rol went around to the iron clasps that joined each chain together and unlocked them. “We’ll need to haul our asses out of here too. I don’t want to be here when Farris sends half the Tridents to look for us.”
“Sarpella would relish that,” Oriana said. Her dragon growled in response. “You haven’t told me where you’ve hidden my sorcerers and all the others.”
Horace peeled back several branches of a tree and peered out into the calm sea from which they’d arrived on a wooden raft. “A cove.”
“Is someone out there?” Oriana asked.
“No,” Horace said. “But I’ll see them if they are. Farris is unlikely to respond quickly; she still has an advantage.”
“Over us? How’s that? We escaped. She doesn’t have our sorcerers or our dragons anymore.”
Horace snapped a thin twig that had rebounded into his face. “Your dragon may be free, but the others aren’t.”
“What?” Oriana snapped, incredulous. “You said—”
“I said nothing about dragons.”
Oriana marched around to the opposite side of Sarpella, closer to Horace. “You told me my sorcerers made for good spies.”
“They do, but even the best spies don’t acquire every morsel of information in only a handful of days. I’ve left them with instructions; they’ll continue working to obtain new leads.” He pulled away from the Y-shaped trunk and clapped his hands clean of dirt. “Meanwhile, we’re going to Haeglin.”
With a resolute upward tilt of her chin, Oriana stood straight. “No. I’m finding my dragons. Afterward, we can talk about Haeglin, but no guarantees.”
“All right, then,” Rol said cheerfully, as if fully unaware of the storm brewing between Oriana and Horace. “She’s free. Oh, no. No, wait just a moment. Forgot about those boulders.”
Horace rubbed his tired, baggy eyes. “You’re a smart girl, Oriana.”
“Woman,” she countered.
He smiled. “Sure. Farris Torbinen used you. She hears Bastion Rook is making moves for himself in Haeglin, and she sees Olyssi Gravendeer holding on to her queenship. She’s scared. And she should be. Bastion has grievances with Torbinen and has long plotted to remove the name from this world.
“Olyssi is easily influenced, and Bastion is a great manipulator. Those two facts do not reconcile with a thriving, peaceful world in Torbinen.”
Oriana could see where this discussion was headed. Farris had used her, she knew that. But right now, Horace was using her, tugging on her emotions. It’s a difficult thing to change the world, he was telling her, if the world’s at war and you’ve no part to play in it.
“There are a lot of unknowns,” Horace said, scratching the curly scraggles on his cheek, “I’ll grant you that. How Haeglin would make a case to its bannermen for war, how they’d solve Farris crippling their trade—but trust me when I tell you Bastion can fabricate a reason for anything. Anything. And likewise, Olyssi Gravendeer will fall for anything. You know this to be true.”
Oriana heard Sarpella purr. She turned and saw Rol petting her snout. She smiled at him, then returned her attention to Horace. “Assume we go to Haeglin. Then what?”
“We make you queen,” Horace said.
Oriana snorted. Such a simple thing to do. “How?”
“I have spent thirty years as a spymaster. I’ve initiated coups and bear responsibility for the death of three kings. Four, if you count Maren O’Keefe—although, to be fair, I merely played a supporting role in his demise.
“I’ve dictated policy in Valios through the blackmailing of Raegon Gravendeer and Emmil Wrokklen, forcing favorable trade deals in the process. Not once have I myself been suspected of any of these shadowy affairs.
“Only Bastion Rook has ever held me in suspicion, and that—given the circumstances—was difficult to avoid. He correctly presumed I had greater ambitions than remaining his steadfast, loyal servant. He hired an assassin to murder me while I was here in Torbinen. The assassin now lies in a sandy tomb.”
Oriana looked for any semblance of pride or smugness on his face. There was nothing. Stone cold as always. Horace Dewn obviously hadn’t fed her those little tales so she’d think him impressive and able, but rather to show he did nothing without preparing for every consequence that could follow.
�
�That’s a lot of words only to say you come prepared.”
“Would you trust me had I stated that?”
“Probably not,” Oriana said. “But I’m not sure I trust you now, either. You admitted you have great ambitions, probably greater than thrusting me into queenship.”
Horace pointed his steepled fingers at Oriana. “I’ve told you once, Oriana, and I told you the truth. I’ve one sole ambition and it’s the same as yours. I wish to change the world. I am loyal only to Avestas, but should you keep your promise to make this world a better place, I will stand by you until the day I die.”
A thin, dagger-shaped leaf fluttered down and stuck itself inside the collar of Oriana’s shirt. A cool wind gusted, and a dense shade crawled across the island. Felt like rain.
“You killed kings,” Oriana said, playing mindlessly with the leaf, “and blackmailed and—”
“All in the name of progress,” Horace said. “Maren O’Keefe would have been a terrible king. He would have caused this world pain and suffering. My blackmailing of your father led to sustenance for the people of Valios and a greater standard of living. And it surely didn’t harm the denizens of Haeglin, did it?
“Understand,” Horace continued, pushing himself close to Oriana, “I am not averse to grim deeds should they lead to progress. I am not guided by a moral compass on a small, individual scale, but rather on a grand, worldly scale. You may call me a bad man who has done evil things, but those things have always been in the name of the greater good.”
The ends justify the means, Oriana thought. She’d met plenty of men who claimed that phrase as their motto. Most used it as an excuse for their barbaric behavior, but Horace… well, he actually seemed earnest. You needed men like him, she knew. Men who got the job done, but whose methods you didn’t question. Because you didn’t want to know.
She turned to Rol. “Have you told Horace yet?”
Rol paused his petting of Sarpella. She nudged him with her head to get him going again. “Er, about what?”
“Our problem sitting at the bottom of the Glass Sea.”
“Ah, that. No.”
“What problem?” Horace asked, an unusual pitch of concern in his voice.
“There are a thousand stone giants lying at the bottom of the ocean, about two miles out from Torbinen. There might be more. There probably are more; I couldn’t tell before the flame burnt out.”
One of Horace’s eyes narrowed. “To clarify, you said stone giants. Yes?”
Oriana explained everything to him, from the big, ugly, hulking monstrosity of stone that they’d brought ashore and subsequently executed, to the army of the creatures beneath the sea.
“Have you ever heard about the Conclave?” Oriana asked.
“Vaguely, and only in text.”
“They’re a collection of sorcerers who, in theory, serve a good purpose—to keep sorcery in check. But they accumulated power, wanted more power, and—well, you know that story.”
Horace massaged his chin. “All too well.”
“They banded together with the dragon clutches; they’re partially responsible for the clutches’ assault on Avestas nine months ago.”
“And you believe they bear responsibility for these giants as well?”
Oriana sighed. “I don’t know. How else could these—” She searched for the proper word, unsuccessfully.
“Monsters?” Rol suggested.
“Sure, that’ll work. How could these monsters exist if not for sorcery? I don’t know of any sorcery that can make something, but—look, someone I trust with my life has been investigating the Conclave since the clutches fell. She was supposed to return three months ago. If the Conclave is involved, she’d know.”
“Where is she?” Horace asked.
“Baelous.” She frowned. “So, another reason I’m hesitant to go to Haeglin. I need to find her.”
Horace’s eyes trailed from her to Rol. He lifted his brows in a suggestive manner.
“Hmm,” Rol said, contemplatively massaging his chin. “It’d be a journey, wouldn’t it?”
“Wait,” Oriana said, turning from Rol to Horace. “You’re asking—no. No, no, no. Rol can’t—”
“Why not?” Horace asked. “Give me a reason, besides he’s your lover and you don’t want to put him in danger.”
Oriana opened her mouth, sputtered and stuttered and stammered. “Well, that’s a damn good reason, isn’t it?”
“That depends,” Horace said. “Would you like to marry, raise a family, and settle some farmland far away from the chaos of these ruinous times? Or would you prefer to do something?”
A shadow crawled across Oriana’s long face.
“Ori,” Rol said, his comforting hand on her shoulder. He clenched down with those rugged fingers of his, and infused her with warmth. The feeling didn’t last, though. She went cold in her bones. “I know how to keep myself alive well enough.”
“How would you even get there?”
“A dragon,” Horace said. “There’s another besides Sarpella. She’s with your sorcerers at the moment.”
“He,” Oriana corrected him. “His name is Grish. And Rol’s never—” She put a hand on Rol’s chest and looked him in the eyes. “I mean you have never ridden a dragon before. It’s… well, it’s not very hard, I suppose.”
“Then it’s settled,” Horace said. “Rol will find your friend and ideally gather information on these giants. You and I will leave for Haeglin on the spine of Sarpella.”
“It’s not settled,” Oriana said. “Catali could be anywhere on Baelous. How will you ever find her?”
Rol shrugged and pointed to his eyes and mouth. “I’ve got these and this. I’ll look around, ask questions. Also got this.” He patted the hilt of his sword. “In case things go funny on me.”
“You’ve never been there!” Her voice reeked of desperation, like a little girl pleading with her father to stay and not go marching off to war. “You’ve no idea where civilization even is there.”
“You got a map?”
“No.”
“Can you draw me one?”
She drew back, irritated. “I guess, but—”
“Then draw me a map, point me to some cities. Have some faith, girly, huh?” He gave her a wink and kissed her forehead.
Oriana took his hands in hers. “It’s not—” She glanced over her shoulder at Horace. “Do you mind?”
“Of course,” Horace said, strolling toward the water’s edge.
“It’s not faith in you that I lack,” Oriana said, her voice soft. “It’s faith in myself. Do you understand?”
Rol’s face contorted in the same manner of a child who has been asked to solve an equation involving both numbers and letters. “Er. Yes.”
“Do you really?”
“No.”
She smiled and palmed his unusually soft face. His beard had grown out from the stubby barbs he usually kept; it was much kinder to her skin. “I don’t want to lose you, Rol. I lost my father, and that was a pain I never want to feel again. With you, I fear the hurt would be even worse. I have faith in you. I’m not sure I have faith in myself—to be strong, to keep my head up and my chin straight.”
Rol tongued his cheek thoughtfully. He unwrapped Oriana’s auburn hair from its tight bun and smoothed out the knotted strands, brushing them over her shoulder. “I served as a sellsword for two lovers once. A rich boy who would’ve probably held the pointy end of a sword if he was ever offered one, and a quaint girl who a vagrant or six wouldn’t have minded making their plaything.
“We got turned around in a forest at night. Now, I didn’t know pretty boy was frightened of the dark. But he was. We had thieves on our heels, and this boy couldn’t move. His feet might as well have been cut off. His girly got in his ear, whispered that he could do it, that she believed in him. And wouldn’t you know it, pretty boy gets a move on, and we managed to make up a hill. I killed four thieves that night, thanks to the high ground. More importantly, I learned someth
ing real valuable.”
Oriana got to her tiptoes, her face a breath’s away from his. “Yeah? What did you learn?”
“That it’s okay if you don’t have faith in yourself, so long as someone has got faith in you.”
“Thoughtful words,” she whispered, her lips creeping closer to his.
He grinned. “I’m a thoughtful guy.”
“And a handsome one.”
With her hand on the back of Rol’s head, Oriana reeled him in and pressed her lips against his. She tasted his warmth and felt his breath in her own lungs. She felt jittery in her belly. Her hands moved down his back, along his flexed arms.
Had walls enclosed them and a door sealed them in, she would have lifted her arms and allowed him to strip her. She would have allowed him to push her down, and she would have wrapped her legs around him.
But this was an island, and Horace was out there, somewhere. So she had to be content with a brief lift of her head and the feel of Rol at her neck. And then she pulled away, panting and wanting so much more.
“When you return,” she said, pausing to swallow and catch her breath.
“I’ll be quick, then,” he said, grinning and brushing her hair out of her eyes.
“When you see me next, I’ll be a queen.”
Rol furrowed his brow. “Does that make me a prince?”
She laughed. “No, not at all.”
“Ah, that’s good. I don’t like that word. Prince. It’s too… too pretty.”
“I’ll have to remember that, Prince Rol.”
“Don’t even…”
She made a face, grabbed his arm and said, “We’ve places to go.”
“And people to see,” he added.
“And a world to change.” She paused, side-eyed him. “Hopefully.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Oriana had been thinking of Rol—she’d said goodbye to him six days ago, after bringing him to the new and hidden location of her sorcerers so he could take Grish to Baelous. She didn’t like thinking of him, because it caused emotions she did not enjoy to stir within her.
But now, a rush of nostalgia bombarded Oriana as Sarpella passed through the night clouds. Although the moon was new and provided for little light, Oriana could nevertheless pick out minuscule details of the cottage below and which pair of creek rocks had housed a gluttonous possum for five summers.
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