Page 118 of Bound to the Shadow Prince

The land around us remains flat and rocky, with only a few scrubby bushes and very few trees to break up the landscape. It’s rather unpleasant, but there are distant hills that hint at a change in scenery, at least.

“Does any of this look familiar to you?” Nemeth asks me.

I shake my head. “I was too miserable to pay attention to the scenery when I was brought here,” I admit. “I vaguely recall following the coast and driving through a few little towns along the way.”

“Well, we’re following the coast,” Nemeth agrees, gesturing at the horizon to the east, where just out of sight, the waters of the sea gleam invitingly.

“Perhaps a boat?” I ask. “To speed up our travel?” I’m all too aware that the knife says we won’t get to the castle in time. We need a way to speed up somehow, to walk faster…something. Anything.

“Do you know how to sail?” Nemeth asks me.

“Well…no. Do you?”

His brows go up. “Candra…my people liveinsidea mountain.”

“Is that a no, then?” I joke.

He stares at me, and then his big shoulders shake with laughter. A chuckle rumbles out of him, and the heavy pack on his back jostles with the force of his laughter. I smile as I walk at his side, pleased that out of everything, I can still make himlaugh. “It’s not as if we’re knee-deep in boats anyhow,” I admit. “I’m just trying to think of alternatives to walking.”

“We will figure something out,” he promises me.

After a soggy midday meal,the rain finally eases off. My clothing begins to dry and my fingers no longer resemble dried prunes. The sun comes out, and the temperature immediately changes from cool and pleasant (if wet) to steamy and overly warm.

Doesn’t matter. It’s clear and that’s all that matters. When I spot a large boulder by the roadside, I immediately head for it, climbing atop a few smaller rocks and then sitting down atop it with my damp skirts spread.

“Time for a rest?” Nemeth asks. “I can carry you if you’re too tired to keep going.”

“I’m fine,” I lie, because I’m tired as shite and want nothing more than to crawl back to that tumbledown shed, moldy hay and all. But I give Nemeth a bright smile and gesture at his pack. “You can take that off for now, since you’re going to try flying.”

“I am?” He arches a heavy brow at me.

“You are,” I say firmly. “You’ll never know unless you try.”

He doesn’t look eager, though. “I could spare myself the humiliation and ask your blade if I can fly.”

“Or…you can just do it anyhow. I promise not to laugh.” I clasp my hands tightly in my lap so he doesn’t see how anxious I am. It’s my fault that his wing is scarred, after all. He was wounded saving me, and on top of that, I’m the one that had to stitch it up. If it’s all wrong, it’s doubly my fault. But I keep my tone bright. “After all, I can’t fly a lick, so anything you do is farbetter than anything I could manage. Give it a try, love. There’s no one here to see but me.”

Nemeth scowls in my direction, but he takes the pack off and sets it down at the base of the boulder, out of the mud. I hold my breath as he takes a few steps out, rotating his arms as if he’s about to enter battle and needs his muscles loose. First one arm and then the other. He’s breathtaking, his shoulders as broad as the day I first saw him, and if he’s lost any muscle, I wouldn’t know it. Hasn’t he done his exercises faithfully every day? Hasn’t he stretched his wings constantly, trying to keep them in shape?

I hope it’s not for nothing. If I could make his wings work simply by worrying, he’d be airborne right now.

Nemeth spreads his wings with a ripple, and everything inside me clenches. Gods, his wings are enormous. I stare in fascination, wondering if this is the first time I’ve seen him spread them like this. He’s always been confined by the tower, and the ceilings and halls that weren’t nearly big enough for him. His wingspan is enormous, easily twice as wide as he is tall, and my heart aches at the sight of the dull pink stripe that slashes across the membrane of one. His scar. He’s right that it looks tight there, the membrane taut and unpleasant looking around it. As I watch, he strains one wing and then stretches the other out, trying to match. The scarred wing won’t go out as far as the other.

He turns to look at me, and I can see the uncertainty in his eyes. I won’t show him my distress. Instead, I beam as if my heart isn’t breaking inside and give him an encouraging gesture. “Go on! You’ll do wonderfully.”

Nemeth nods and closes his eyes. Then, his powerful legs seem to bunch up, his wings folding in and he flings himself upward, launching into the air.

I hold my breath, watching as he immediately flicks his wings out the moment he’s in the air, flapping to gain height. Hismovements are awkward, the one wing clearly crippling him. He flounders, listing to one side, and I press a fist to my lips so I don’t scream aloud. But then he rights himself, and, wobbling through the air, manages to keep flying. His wings beat with heavy, strong waves, and he stays in the air. I watch as he soars higher, and if it isn’t a pretty flight, or a fast one, it’s still flight and I’m so proud of him.

Hands clasped over my heart, I watch as he circles high in the skies, flying so far away he looks like a drunken bird. I’m not worried—I know he’ll come back for me. And when he disappears from sight, I adjust my skirts, trying to dry them in the sunlight, and make sure my head is covered with my hood so I don’t sunburn any further.

Nemeth isn’t gone for very long. When I look up again he’s returning, his flight obvious by the jerky movement of his wings. I watch him with pride, waving as he approaches. To a normal human, he might look fearsome, a dark gray demon with bat wings come to steal them away from their home, an evil Fellian monster. But I can see the pride on his face as he comes to a clumsy landing on the boulder beside me. I can also see the sheen of sweat on his skin and know that was harder for him than he’d ever let on. “You were magnificent,” I tell him proudly. “Utterly magnificent.”

“Dragon shite,” he says, crouching low and panting. But he grins, displaying his fangs. “It was terrible and I’m pretty sure I strained something in my back, but I could fly. That’s one worry handled.”

“How did your repaired wing do?”

“It’s weak,” he admits. “Weak and the damaged section pulls constantly when I beat my wings. But I’m hoping with time it’ll grow as strong as the other once more.” He scrubs a hand down his sweaty face, but then grins at me. “It still felt amazing.”

---