Page 46 of This Midsummer Heart
Chapter twenty-two
The Dragoner's Road
Auberon
Thesignatthefork in the road points us to our fate.
Ahead, eastward on the winding Vi del Sol Road, lies the fireswamp and the independent elven land of Embersdeep. Beyond that, the Bridge of Miracles.
We’re so close.
On the other side of the fork, The Dragoner’s Road begins, cutting through rugged terrain until it flourishes with human cities and the Western Cross becomes the Middle Cross, the human strongholds strung like stone beads on a necklace all the way to the Ten Thousand Isles of Renia.
Neither of us hesitate as we take the south-leading path.
I notice the way Titaine’s shoulders, and even her wings, droop the closer we come to the Bridge of Miracles. With all the rain that fell last night, the imprints of horse hooves are easy to pick out.
The clover-like imprint of Giselda’s hooves is nowhere to be found.
All day, as we draw nearer to the fire swamp, I’ve wanted to ask Titaine how confident she feels about her backup plan. I don’t, because I already know the answer.
The lady Titaine is like the sun. It’s the dark elves who have affinity with elements like the moon, the ruler of the tides. She is a master of great sorcery, but chaotic tides are not in her wheelhouse.
I’m not sure they’d be in anyone’s. Even Cassandra, the most magically gifted moon elf I know, could not alter the tide.
Something about these changes to Duskhold’s magic has been able to, however. And that means it’s possible.
I repeat that over and over to myself. It’s possible.
In other moments, I wonder if we’ll even see the waves coming before we’re dashed off that narrow strip of land. It’s called the Bridge of Miracles for a reason.
As I brood over this, Titaine stops dead. I don’t even notice at first. By the time I do, she stands with a hand on the back of her neck, her eyes unfocused, as if she is listening to a distant sound.
A trio of merchant caravans nears, each pulled by oxen, parting from our path at the fork. Still, Titaine doesn’t move.
I try my best to be patient.
At last, her head lifts slowly, her eyes large. “I can sense Giselda.”
“What? How?”
“I just know—I know it’s her. They still have her.” She wheels, eyeing the caravan. “I’d bet anything those bandits are on that road, waiting to ambush caravans just like those three.”
I grasp the basket hilt of the broadsword Daegris Silverbeard gifted me, arching a brow at Titaine. “Feel like doing something gallant?”
“You can be as gallant as you please. I’m going to show those miscreants what comes of stealing from the fetes.”
The spark in Titaine’s eye lights a fire in me—one I’d almost forgotten the feel of. Titaine is a scholar, first and foremost. But when provoked?
Let’s just say I’d much rather they feel the wrath of my fearsome fae queen than me.
Unified, for once, we point our horses back toward the fork in the road, stepping onto The Dragoner’s Road instead. A shiver passes over my skin as Titaine extends a diverting glamour, hiding us from human sight by encouraging mortals to look away and ignore our presence.
Let’s hope all the bandits are mortal.
Even as I think this, a cold, anxious feeling brews in my stomach. All those years of elven war, I barely slew ten elves on the opposing side—and never on purpose. It’s not our way, and it’s not something I wish to repeat. But I cannot escape the feeling that this new age of Duskhold requires me to be much harder of heart, and far more like a human than I’d ever wish to be.
Still, I owe those northern bandits for their earlier treatment of me, and for one other thing:
