Page 168 of Evil Hearts

“I took a little extra time in the sky,” Oryn replies, his own voice bouncing off the stone walls of the Wyvern’s cave. “It felt too good stretching my wings. I flew beyond your borders into the wetlands to ensure none followed me. Only then did I return,” the Prince explains, ensuring the wyvern knows Oryn didn’t lead danger to his door.

In moments one of Islwyn’s taloned wings grasps the wall of the cave mouth, scratching for purchase while his sharp teeth glisten in the dim light as he cautiously exits the cave. The sight might look eerie to some, but seeing Islwyn, his friend, leaving the safety of his home in greeting warms Oryn. When the wyvern’s marbled eyes follow his sharp almost tusk-like teeth and talons, they take in the Prince from his crystal crown to his tail tip, ensuring he’s come to no harm during his travels.The wyvern nods slowly then holds his head low, granting Oryn the deference he still believes is deserved of his station.

“How many times …” Oryn begins, only to have Islwyn hiss at his words, cutting him off.

Islwyn straightens and closes one eye, before snaking out his thin tongue at Oryn. “The Wood wouldn’t be what it is without your attention. We both know that. My respect is granted for that reason, Oryn. Your constant consideration of my home andits needs is appreciated.” Islywn’s eyes leave Oryn to survey the clearing in front of his lair. Once satisfied he’s safe, he returns his attention to the Prince. “Maybe one day you will stop assuming the esteem I grant you is for your position instead of your deeds.” Islwyn’s eyes close and a warm, rumbling chuckle rises between them as the wyvern shakes his shoulders gently.

Oryn had come to enjoy how expressive his friend was though he’d found it odd when their relationship was only beginning. He’d grown to understand that it was due to the close relationship he formed with his nestmates growing up. They’d been allowed to play and grow together, where Oryn had been separated from his own brothers for their safety. “You act as if I’m being selfless,” Oryn claps back at him playfully, one taloned hand rising to his chest. “If you ask me, I would say you grant me a much needed reprieve from reality, temporary as it is.”

Islwyn nods, his horns only barely missing the tree branches above him. They grew since Oryn’s last visit, proof the wyvern cared little for the appearance of his home now that he had none to look upon it.

“Then I am happy our business is mutually beneficial,” he replies, and once more scans the clearing, his eyes penetrating the flowering branches and shrubbery surrounding them. “Shall we walk?” he questions and Oryn nods to him, taking hold of his power and forcing his body to diminish in size once more. Oryn isn’t thrilled about it, but walking through the Wood beside the wyvern would be difficult if both of them remained in their ordinary, much larger sizes. Beside him, Islwyn does the same, and only now does he exit his lair completely. Iridescent green markings cover his thick hide, and they shimmer as he passes under a beam of sunlight. Oryn had always appreciated how beautiful he was, but some of his shine had dulled since they had last met.

“Did Cruor not visit you this year?” The Prince questions concern lacing his words. Like Oryn, the lindwyrm leader usually took some of his raiding period to feed the Wood, but it looked as if he hadn’t during this cycle. The wyvern beside him shakes his head before wrapping his clawed wings in front of himself so they form what looks like a cloak over his shoulders and behind him.

“King Khrysoar denied him the ability to leave his territory after the death of his brother,” Islwyn says, and Oryn looks away from him, wincing internally as shame clutches his chest for not knowing what transpired.

“We haven’t spoken since the Assemblage,” he begins, and Islwyn only shakes his head in response, not allowing Oryn to continue.

“I thought as much,” the wyvern says. “Railing against the King’s authority had consequences none of us could have expected, no matter how well meant it was.” Nodding his agreement, Oryn tucks his wings behind him and rises to his hind legs much like Islwyn already had. Once his wings are tucked behind him safely, the pair begin walking side by side through the colorful vegetation.

“Have you heard from Cruor since it happened?” Oryn questions, and Islwyn nods.

“He wrote to clarify things,” he begins to explain. “Admetus was in a rage, much like he always was.” A heavy sigh falls from the wyvern before he continues. “He wanted to kill the Wanderers of the Dreki before they decided to rise up as the Ocranians have.” The Prince grimaces, his teeth bared at the revelation. Dragons didn’t kill without provocation, despite what the humans seemed to believe of them. They only ever protected themselves from assaults. Even vengeance, no matter how warranted, wasn’t allowed. Not even the wyrms hadn’t sought revenge for their fallen brethren, yet the dragons wereconsidered the monsters for nothing more than the way they look. “Cruor tried to talk him down but he wouldn’t listen.” Islwyn pauses and the weight of his words slow them both.

Oryn stops, his shoulders heavy with grief. Cruor would be branded a traitor, a killer, worse, a kin-slayer for protecting humans. The same humans who would happily wipe out his kind for nothing more than existing.

“He had no choice,” Islwyn says, his voice barely a whisper on the breeze. The silence between them grows until Islwyn lets out a guttural growl, clearing the air of the sadness they both feel at the loss of another of their kind.

“Let’s focus on something else for our walk,” he insists, and Oryn quickly nods his agreement. “Have you read anything good lately?” the wyvern questions as he looks at Oryn.

The Prince barks out a loud laugh at his question, the near roar echoing through the leaves of the wood and sending small faedragons skittering away in fear. Islwyn shoots Oryn an unhappy glare and he lowers his voice before continuing.

“When have I not, my friend?” Oryn retorts, another laugh bubbling from his glowing chest. He holds it back, only allowing a quiet chuckle to sound in the still air of the Wood. “How about you? Anything notable added to your hoard?” His eyes slowly sweep over the bright foliage of the wood, taking in the broad leaves and blossoms around them as his rear claws grip the soft, moss covered earth they walk over.

“There are a few wing sheds I was able to add to my treasure trove that I’m particularly pleased with,” he says and Oryn catches an excited glint in his eye. “One set was especially difficult as I had to follow the little fellow for days just to catch the molt.”

As Oryn listens to the wyvern, he inhales the scent of the wood, allowing the saccharine breeze to ease his stressed mind. Already he can feel the tension in his shoulders easing and Orynwelcomes it. There isn’t anything he could do about what had already happened due to his actions at the Assemblage. The only thing to do was handle what the future brings with a clear head. This is the best thing for him right now, no matter how much guilt he may feel for it.

“Sounds exhilarating,” he comments slowly, and Islwyn looks at Oryn from the side, his bright eye squinting with skepticism. “It’s no jab, I mean it my friend,” the Prince reassures him. “It must take great patience to track a faedragon’s life cycle and know when they are about to molt their adolescent wings. Let alone the dedication it takes to follow one in particular to ensure the delicate molt isn’t damaged. All I do is request a Keeper to search out a certain book or genre and they do so. Well, some of them will,” he says, shaking his head from side to side. “My treasure hunting amounts to a pile of correspondence these days. Yours sounds exhilarating in comparison.”

When Oryn is finished speaking, Islwyn brightens and the Prince can see that his words have made the wyvern happy. The canopy has begun to close in over them as they walk, but the Wood is no less beautiful for the shade. Already glowing insects are appearing, guiding the pair’s steps with their golden phosphorescence. Oryn holds out a taloned hand in front of himself, waving it through the swarming mass and watches as they flit away, dodging this way and that, leaving bright streaks in his vision.

“I do find it rather titillating to be sure,” Islwyn speaks, his tone full of the same giddiness he himself has when speaking of his books, or Zath when discussing his teacups. “A few weeks past, I aided in a particularly difficult molt. The poor creature couldn’t rid itself of its old wings, and the new ones were growing in already. It was such a painful affair for the tiny fellow. Though one is nearly ruined, I still saved them anyway. Getting to help him was such a joy.” The wyvern’s shoulders rise and thelong talons on his wings clutched at his chest tense for just a moment.

“I’m surprised he allowed you to do so,” Oryn says.

“As am I,” Islwyn agrees, “Though, it seems the longer I’m alone here, the more comfortable they become with me.” Islwyn’s words are laced with sadness, but he quickly recovers. “I can’t complain though, it does make it easier to attain the most beautiful treasures. The wings are so fragile after all.”

Before Oryn can respond a faedragon flies up to Islwyn, flits about his head and then lands on his snout. The tiny creature looks from the wyvern to Oryn, and bristles.

“I’ve been calling this one Sprout,” the wyvern says, his eyes crossing as he tries to look at the faedragon. The tiny beast is various shades of shining, verdant green and he glimmers in the diffused light. “He’s rather tenacious.” Islwyn’s words are hushed as if he’s trying not to scare the critter, but it looks as if the miniscule creature is apt to defend its perch rather than be frightened away. “And Oryn is a friend, so play nice,” the wyvern chides, his eyes crossing even more awkwardly as they stare down his snout at the stoic faedragon.

“I can see why you picked Sprout,” Oryn says, lowering his voice to match Islwyn’s. “He is absolutely stunning.” Sprout preens at the compliment, puffing out his tiny chest and throwing his head back and the Prince has to clamp his mouth shut to hold in a bark of laughter. When Sprout holds open his elaborate wings for inspection, Oryn can see one is loosening at the base, ready to fall off.

“You vain, proud little creature.” Islwyn scoffs and shakes his head, dragging the beast back and forth through the air until it chirps its discontent. “Oryn,” he says, “I’ve had Sprout and his friends gather a few of your favorite saprophytes. The red and white capped ones. They’ve placed them on the boulder at the edge of the clearing you usually occupy and let the faedragonsknow you will be there for a few days,” he explains, his eyes still set on the little creature atop his snout. “I’ve added to your dose from your last visit, as we’ve done before. There should be more than enough there to achieve your reprieve from reality. Please remember to connect with the Wood,” he reminds Oryn, though his attention is still on the miniscule creature atop his snout. “This fellow needs help with his wings though, so I’ll leave you to enjoy yourself. Please come by my lair before you leave.” His marbled eyes flash toward the Prince and he exposes his teeth in a wide grin before turning around and walking away. “I’ll see you when you have returned to Drandaris, my friend,” he calls over his shoulder before leaving Oryn in the quiet stillness of the Wood.

Chapter Four

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