Page 16 of Fly to Fury
“You discovered how to tap into your magic in a deeper way.” Dacha, too, continued moving, although he appeared to lack the restlessness that still churned inside Fieran.
“But why couldn’t I do it before?” Fieran didn’t ask the real question. Why hadn’t his dacha ever taught him this skill? It was unlike Dacha to neglect to teach a facet of their shared magic.
“I suspect it takes the forging of battle to develop the necessary oneness with your magic.” Dacha’s gaze drifted away from Fieran to stare at the mountains beyond him. “I attempted to describe the skill and sensation to you and your sisters, but you never understood until now.”
Fieran couldn’t remember Dacha’s attempts to teach him this. But he hadn’t always been the best student duringmorning practices. Too restless. Too cavalier about his magic and his sword skills.
He’d grown up surrounded by all the uses for his magic besides battle. He’d filled power cell after power cell. He’d experimented with engines and inventions for turning his magic into mechanical power. In his mind, his magic’s use had first and foremost been for its power to fuel machines.
But Dacha had been right, back at Bridgetown in the wake of that battle. Elves with their magic were born for battle. The magic of the ancient kings could not be fully understood or wielded outside of war.
Fieran swallowed, something raw rising inside him. He was a weapon, even if he’d never seen himself that way before. A sword could be used to cut cake or decorate a wall, but that would never take away the fact that at its heart, a sword’s purpose was to kill.
“No, I didn’t. I couldn’t.” Fieran stared down at the swords in his hands. He’d never seen them run red with blood, but he had plenty of blood on his hands. He’d already killed hundreds with his magic, and he’d kill more before this war was over. “Are those with the magic of the ancient kings always doomed to war no matter what we do?”
Were his sisters doomed to follow in his and Dacha’s footsteps? Adry likely wouldn’t fight such a thing. She itched to do just that. But Fieran couldn’t picture his sister Louise on the frontlines, facing having to kill as he had.
Was she, even now, having to wield her magic to protect Aldon from bombing?
“Perhaps.” Dacha halted next to him. “But as long as evil exists, as long as there is a desire for empire and domination, the world itself is doomed to war. Someone must fight to protect others, no matter how brutal, ugly, and bloody such a duty is.”
Fieran nodded, that weight still settled in his chest.
“Fieran, sason, we fight for those who cannot. We fight for those who remain behind.” Dacha gestured in the direction of the rest of Escarland. Then he changed the wave of his hand to take in the sprawl of Fort Defense. “And we fight for our fellow warriors here. Would you ask them to go into battle without you?”
No, he wouldn’t. Fieran’s stomach churned worse at the thought of sending his squadron—Lije, Pretty Face, Stickyfingers, Tiny, Aylia, and all the rest, yes, even Lt. Rothilion—into the sky to face the Mongavarian guns without the protection of his magic.
Perhaps Dacha read the hardening of determination in his expression, for his stance eased, his tone lighter. “Come. Let us continue our practice.”
Fieran released a breath and rolled his shoulders to try to release the tension there.
Instead of facing Fieran, Dacha turned toward the rest of the hollow. Uncle Iyrinder and Merrik strode toward them, both of them already covered in a sheen of sweat.
As they drew closer, Dacha gestured from them to Fieran. “Two on two?”
Uncle Iyrinder nodded, his chestnut hair the same color as Merrik’s flowing over his shoulders.
No question how they’d break out. Merrik came to stand next to Fieran as Uncle Iyrinder joined Dacha.
Fieran shared a grin with Merrik. The two of them were about to get whupped, but he didn’t care. He’d take having Merrik at his back any day.
Pip couldn’t holdback the spring in her step as she strode from the sturdy wooden building that formed the quarters for the female pilots and mechanics, across the small stretch of straggling grass, and into the door of the hangar that led to Bay 3.
Stacks of miscellaneous crates, random parts, and bolts of canvas for airships filled half the bay. The half nearest the door to Bay 4 had a few scattered aeroplane parts and pieces, including a half-disassembled engine.
Stepping into Bay 4, Pip took in the hubbub as her mechanics bustled around the aeroplanes of Flight B, finishing the last checks after the long flight from Dar Goranth to Fort Defense.
Pip nodded to a few of the mechanics as she made her way to the workbench she’d claimed as hers. Fieran’s aeroplane rested closest to her workstation, the artwork of elf ears, flames, and blue magic vivid even in the half-light of morning.
The large hangar door rested open, letting in a cool breeze scented with dew. Stepping to the doorway, she drew in a deep breath, soaking in the pleasantness of the morning.
Four figures strode down the hill toward the hangar. Her gaze snagged first on Fieran, his red hair highlighted in the rising sun while the sunbeams glinted on the hilts of the two swords resting across his back.
Great. There was that annoying flutter in her chest again. Fieran, looking all trim and professional in his army uniform was bad enough. Fieran wearing twin blades and strolling with an extra edge of deadliness just sent her heart into a nosedive.
She needed to get a grip. She yanked her gaze away from Fieran, skimming over Merrik and his dacha with theirmatching long chestnut hair, to focus on the figure next to Fieran.
Prince Farrendel Laesornysh. His silver-blond hair drifted on the breeze around the hilts of his swords on his back.
