Page 77 of Wings of Frost and Fury
Kyreagan lands in the opening of the cave behind us, his shadow blocking some of the light.
“Your offspring,” I say, turning toward him. “They’re beautiful.”
“They are.” His voice is low, gentle, threaded with worry. He looks from the eggs back to me. “Please, would you…”
“Of course.”
I write the spell on a thin slab of rock that Ashvelon brought with us, grasped in his claws. Once the letters are inked, Ashvelon carves them deeper.
With the spell etched, I draw the casting circle around the stone slab and set up the crystals, sprinkling the emergent lines with a selection of dried herbs. I use one of Kyreagan’s scales this time, one that’s already loose on his left back leg.
“Sorry,” I say as I pull it free.
“It will grow back,” he assures me. “Our scales renew themselves every so often anyway, and that one was due to drop out soon and be replaced.”
Kyreagan watches with interest as I sit by the stone and weave the spell. Ashvelon sits beside him.
Since I haven’t fully recovered from the ravages of the Mordvorren, even this small charm takes everything I have, right down to the dregs, as I knew it would. But I have a clearer perception of my limits ever since I performed the great transformation. Thankfully, as I promised Ashvelon, the charm does not send me into a frozen, barely conscious state. My weakness does overcome me, though, and when the work is finished, I slump to the floor, temporarily overcome.
Ashvelon darts forward with a reproachful, panicked growl, nuzzling me.
“I’m fine,” I tell him. “Just tired.”
“Your pardon, my Prince,” he says to Kyreagan. “I must take the enchantress to rest now.”
I barely have time to give Kyreagan a few sentences of basic instruction on how to summon and dispel his horns beforeAshvelon scoops me up in his front claws and flies out of the cave. He snatches my bag with his back claw.
I glare up at his armored throat. “I wanted to give Kyreagan some more advice and wish him luck!”
“You’ve helped enough. Time to rest.”
“You’re an impatient motherfucking dumbass, do you know that?”
He answers calmly, almost smugly. “When it comes to your wellbeing, I will do what I must.”
The security that statement brings me is like nothing I have ever felt. Despite how exhausted I am, I catch myself smiling as we fly.
After several minutes of silence, Ashvelon says, “If you’re well enough, I would like to accompany some of the other dragons on a venture to the Middenwold Isles, which now belong to us, according to our bargain with the King of Vohrain.”
“The same king who is buying the Princess from Fortunix?” My voice drips with suspicion.
“He signed over the islands to our clan,” Ashvelon says. “No matter what has occurred since that agreement was made, it still stands. The Middenwold Isles have abundant prey for us to hunt, and we will need that food, especially after the devastation the Mordvorren wrought upon Ouroskelle.”
I stare down at the valley far below us. Even though I’m secure in Ashvelon’s claws, my belly rolls with terror at how high we are above the ground. Swallowing, I focus on observing the landscape below—piles of smashed trees, rockfalls, vegetative debris, and landslides. The beautiful green forest has been wrecked, pummeled to splinters. The face of each mountainside has been scoured brutally. Even the meadows beyond are swamped with mud and littered with broken trees, dislodged dragon bones, and debris.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “It must hurt to see it like this.”
Though my voice is quiet, Ashvelon hears me and rumbles sorrowfully in response. “Yes, it does cause me pain. But my greatest joy is your survival, which soothes the pain of other wounds.”
“You’re getting better at those bits of poetry,” I tease him.
He chuckles. “I tried to think of what Prince Varex would say. He has always been skilled with words. Are you comfortable enough in my claws, or should I land so you can climb onto my back? Are you strong enough to hold on if I let you ride me?”
“This isn’t the most comfortable of positions,” I admit. “But as long as you promise not to drop me, I’ll be fine until we get home.”
His breath catches. “Home.”
“It’s just a word,” I tell him.
