Page 93 of Dreams and Dragon Wings
“Let me sleep, Rowan,” I whisper, slipping my hand beneath my pillow to touch the edge of Bene’s ruined letter I have hidden there. I dare not let them see it; they might take it from me, thinking it is something important.
But it is only an object of importance to me.
And to the sleeping dragon trapped in the tower.
Faithfully Yours, Bene.
Those are the words I inscribe on my mind, on my heart. I cannot give up yet—not while there is even a sliver of a chance.
But still, I am so tired. So terribly tired. Perhaps if I sleep just a little longer, I will have the strength to continue playing Malice’s games.
Ghoul cackles, the sound burbling wetly in his throat. “She calls you by your green-name! Grime and theTherya’fey!” The green-skinned goblin waddles around the room, bowing andsimpering. “Yes,Therya’fey. Let me lick your shoes,Therya’fey—”
Rowan launches himself at his fellow goblin, cutting him off with a pained yelp. I look away and stare at the dancing flames in the hearth instead while they scuffle.
Only once the sounds of struggle cease—the pecking order clearly established again—do I ask, “And what is your green-name, Ghoul?”
The goblin spits. “Ghoul spits on his green-name.”
Rowan grabs Ghoul by the ear and bodily drags him toward the door. “What he means is that Ghoul doesn’t remember his green-name or the elf he once was. We will leave you now,Therya’fey. Rest.”
Rest. If only my sleep were restful.
If only my mind didn’t torment me with nightmares at every opportunity.
I can no longer limp, but I can still crawl.
I crawl until I can go no further.
Until I collapse in a clearing surrounded by roses.
Wilting roses. Rotting roses. Their scent washes over me, seeking to drown me beneath their sweet stench.
My fingers dig into the dry grass as I try to conjure the strength to drag my body a few inches more, but I cannot. My hunt, for now, is at an end.
Footsteps crunch closer, filling my vision with the sight of dark boots and legs wrapped in purple silk. I lift my eyes, hardly daring to hope I might have found him at last.
“Bene,” I choke out as my gaze meets his. Itishim.
But where I expect his sapphire eyes to be filled with joy at seeing me again, dream Bene’s gaze is hard. Angry.
Voices chime in the near distance, warning, “It is a trap!” and “He is playing a trick on you again, surely.”
“What?” I ask, but Bene peels back his lips and silences me with a snarl.
“Leave me to die in peace, Liar,” he declares, cold and cruel. He turns away from me, clearly intending to just walk away while I lie there in the dead grass, trying not to cry. “I never want to see you again.”
Tears immediately blur my vision. It is only safe to cry here in my dreams, where Malice and his goblins cannot see.
Why must my mind continue to torture me by making my dream Bene mad at me? Have I not already suffered enough?
“Benevolence Radiata,” I cry out to his retreating back. “I have never once lied to you. Except”—my breath hitches in my throat as some sound caught between a laugh and a sob escapes—“except that time I told you your singing voice isn’t completely atrocious, even though it is.”
Dream Bene stops walking at once and swivels back to face me, his eyes wide. “What did you just say?”
“I said your singing voice is completely atrocious!”
Before I even finish shouting the words at him, he rushes toward me and scoops me up into his arms like a groom about to carry his bride over the threshold.
