Page 15 of Wings of Frost and Fury
She’s slipping between my claws, and even as I tighten them, I can feel her body emerging from my hold. She clings toone of my claws for a moment, and then, with a faint scream, she falls.
I dive after her through the fog and the darkness. Opening my throat, I let the glow of my frost-fire shine faintly over the heaving surface of the ocean. The light would be brighter if I actually released my frost-fire, but I don’t want to risk accidentally killing the woman.
Frantically I scan the dark, churning sea. I can see nothing but undulating black waves laced with pale foam. When I dip lower, dangerously close to the water, a wave crests and smacks me in the snout with cold spray.
“Woman!” I call. “Where are you?”
The other dragons have continued onward. I don’t think any of them realize what has happened, what I’ve done.
I fuckingdroppedthe woman I captured. The panic and shame of it crush against my heart, joining the weight of grief.
For hours I hunt for the farm girl, nearly swamping myself in the waves. The ocean can be dangerous for a dragon. Once it ensnares our wings, it will drag us down. There is nothing to push off from, no way to get airborne again. Some of us can swim for short distances, but most of us are too heavy, and with the drag of our giant wings, we cannot remain afloat for long.
In my search for the girl, I come closer to drowning than I ever have in my life. But she is nowhere to be seen, and at last I admit to myself that she is gone. I lost her, and she has perished in the waves.
Even though she fought me and fell, I take full responsibility for her death. Rather than being far away in my own thoughts, I should have spoken with her. I should have reassured her that she would not be eaten or harmed.
I failed her. I should have left her alone by the well. She was simply living her life, and I destroyed her.
Exhausted and grieved nearly to the point of death, I land on one of the beaches of Ouroskelle. I drag my body higher on thesand, out of reach of the tide. I think I am weeping, although my scales are too coated with saltwater for me to tell. I cannot bear to encounter any others of my kind, not yet. Not until I have rested and gained some measure of self-control.
For a moment, I think of alethia. I crave the sharp sting of it, the spicy sweetness of its leaves melting on my tongue. I ache for the way it helps me see the world, for the pulsing thrill of the pleasure it brings to my body.
If I had alethia, I could forget everything that has happened for a little while. I would not have to feel it so deeply. Why should I suffer excruciating pain and internal conflict when there is something to help me, something to soften the torment?
The desire to search for alethia is almost strong enough to make me get up. But my exhaustion is so great that I physically cannot rise. And that is what saves me from disappointing myself yet again on this terrible night.
When I wake, it is still night, but dawn is coming. I can feel its breath whispering across the sea.
I dreamed of Mordessa while I slept. I don’t remember much of the dream, only vague impressions of golden wings, trust, and warmth. There’s a glow in my heart like the ghost of her presence, and it’s enough to give me the strength I need. I push away thoughts of alethia and turn my mind instead to Kyreagan, Varex, and my fellow dragons.
Mourning alone is not healthy. I should be mourning with the clan. I should ask the princes if there is anything they need from me. Even though the war is over, I was a section leader. Myrole is to support the leadership of the clan and to serve them in all things. There is much to be done, and I will not accept the luxury of self-indulgence.
Mordessa often told me that thinking of others is the best way to avoid the trap of self-pity. That is what she would want me to do, and that is what I will do.
Shaking the sand and salt from my scales as best I can, I claw my way up the nearest cliff until I’m high enough to peel away from the rock and take to the air.
Night still lies over Ouroskelle, and the stars glisten like tiny jewels. As I soar over one of the mountain ridges, I spot another dragon sitting on a ledge near a glowing dyre-stone, which we sometimes use to light our caves.
Fortunix has similar coloring to mine, though his scales are lighter gray, with a rougher texture. He is an Elder, nearly a hundred and twenty-five years, and he bears scars on his wings from a dark time, decades ago, when humans came to our islands to hunt us down.
When he spots me, his great wings stir and spread. He drops from the ledge and rises to glide alongside me.
“Here you are, Ashvelon,” he says. “I wondered why you did not return with the others.”
“There was an incident,” I say. “I needed rest.”
“I see. Did you also bring back a squirming little creature in your claws?” Fortunix asks.
“I had one, but… she fell.”
“Just as well,” he mutters. “What is Kyreagan thinking, bringing our enemies among us?”
His open condemnation of the prince makes me uncomfortable. “The women aren’t dangerous.”
Fortunix snorts. “Humans are always dangerous.”
“Kyreagan has a purpose for them.” Briefly I explain the plan, but it doesn’t appease Fortunix.
